The room shared its aery with a broad, square veranda, trellised and vine-covered.  Here were tables and chairs, and here Leighton and Lewis dined.  Before they had finished their meal, two groups had formed about separate tables.  One was of old men, white-haired, white-bearded, each with his pipe and a long mug of beer.  The other was of women.  They, too, were old, white-haired.  Their faces were not hard, like the men’s, but filled with a withered motherliness.  The men eyed the two foreigners distrustfully as though they hung like a cloud over the accustomed peace of that informal village gathering.

“All old, eh?” said Leighton to Lewis with a nod.  “And sour.  Want to see them wake up?”

“Yes,” said Lewis.

The woman who served them was young by comparison with the rest.  Leighton had discovered that she was an Alsatian, and had profited thereby in the ordering of his dinner.  She was the daughter-in-law of the old couple that owned the inn.  He turned to her and said in French, so that Lewis could understand: 

“Smile but once, dear lady.  You serve us as though we were Britishers.”

The woman turned quickly.

“And are you not Britishers?”

“No,” said Leighton; “Americans.”

“So!” cried the woman, her face brightening.  She turned to the two listening groups.  “They are not English, after all,” she called gaily.  “They are Americans—­Americans of New York!”

There was an instant change of the social atmosphere, a buzz of eager talk.  The old men and the old women drew near.  Then came shy, but eager, questions.  Hans, Fritz, Anna were in New York.  Could Leighton give any news of them?  Each had his little pathetically confident cry for news of son or daughter, and Leighton’s personal acquaintance, as an American, was taken to range from Toronto to Buenos Aires.

Leighton treated them like children; laughed at them, and then described gravely in simple words the distances of the New World, the size and the turmoil of its cities.

“Your children are young and strong,” he added, noting their wistful eyes; “they can stand it.  But you—­you old folks—­are much better off here.”

“And yet,” said an old woman, with longing in her pale eyes, “I have stood many things.”

Leighton turned to Lewis.

“All old, eh?” he repeated.  “Young ones all gone.  Do you remember what I said about this being the best-regulated state on earth?”

Lewis nodded.

“Well,” continued Leighton, “a perfectly regulated state is a fine thing, a great thing for humanity.  It has only one fault:  nobody wants to live in it.”

Two days later they reached Heidelberg and, on the day following, climbed the mountain to the Koenigstuhl.  They stood on the top of the tower and gazed on such a sight as Lewis had never seen.  Here were no endless sands and thorn-trees, no lonely reaches, no tropic glare.  All was river and wooded glade, harvest and harvesters, spires above knotted groups of houses, castle, and hovel.  Here and there and everywhere, still spirals of smoke hung above the abodes of men.  It was like a vision of peace and plenty from the Bible.