not just on speaking terms with it, as you are in the city.  Why, I know about your garden because I have stood a thousand, thousand times leaning on my hoe in my own garden, discussing those peonies with old Mrs. Belham who lived there before you.”  This seemed to bring up some picture into her mind at which she looked for a moment, turning from it to the man beside her, with a warmth in her voice which went to his heart.  “It’s been forlorn having that dear little old house empty and cold.  I can’t tell you how glad I am you have come to warm it, and live in it.”

The wonder of it overcame Mr. Welles like a wave.  “I can’t believe I’m really going to!” he cried desperately.  “It doesn’t seem possible!” He felt shamed, knowing that he had burst out too violently.  What could she know of what lay back of him, that he was escaped from!  What could she think of him, but that he was a foolish, bitter old man?

She did not seem to think that, looking at him attentively as though she wanted to make out just what he meant.  Perhaps she did make out, for she now said gently, “I believe you are going to like it, Mr. Welles.  I believe you are going to find here what, . . . what you deserve to find.”  She said quietly, “I hope we shall be good neighbors to you.”

She spoke so kindly, her look on him was so humane that he felt the water coming to his eyes.  He was in a foolishly emotional state, these first days.  The least little thing threw him off the track.  It really did seem hardly possible that it was all true.  That the long grind at the office was over, the business he had always hated and detested, and the long, hateful slavery at the flat finished at last, and that he had come to live out what was left to him in this lovely, peaceful valley, in that quiet welcoming little house, with this sweet woman next door!  He swallowed.  The corners of his mouth twitched.  What an old lunatic he was.  But he did not dare trust himself to speak again.

Now Vincent’s voice rose.  What a length of time Vincent had been silent,—­he who never took a back seat for anybody!  What had he been doing all this time, sitting there and staring at them with those awfully brilliant eyes of his?  Very likely he had seen the silly weak tears so near the surface, had caught the sentimental twitch of the mouth.  Yes, quite certainly, for, now he was showing his tact by changing the subject, changing it with a vengeance.  “Mrs. Crittenden,” he was saying, “my curiosity has been touched by that very fine photograph over there.  I don’t recognize the castle it shows.”

“That’s in Bayonne,” she said, and paused, her eyes speculatively on him.

“No, Heavens no!  You don’t need to tell me that it’s not Bayonne, New Jersey!” he answered her unspoken question violently.  This made her laugh, opening her long eyes a little.  He went on, “I’ve been as far as Pau, but never went into the Basque country.”