As he was speaking I thought Bart paid very scant attention, but following his pointing finger I at once saw what had absorbed him.  On the opposite side of the river, extending into the brush lots, was a knoll the size and counterpart of ours, even in the way that it lay by the compass, only this was untouched, as nature planned it, and the model for our restoration.

“Do you clear the land as far back as this?” Bart asked of The Man, eagerly.

“Yes, not for the sake of the land, but for the boulders and loose rock on those ledges; all the rock hereabout will be little enough for our masonry!”

“Then,” said Bart, “I’m going to transplant the growth on this knoll, root and branch, herb and shrub, moss and fern, to our own, if it takes me until Christmas!  It isn’t often that a man finds an illustrated plan with all the materials for carrying it out under his hand for merely the taking.  There are enough young hemlocks up there to windbreak our whole garden.  The thing I’m not sure about is just when it will do to begin the transplanting.  Meanwhile I’ll make a list of the plants we know that we can add to as others develop and blossom.”

So he set to work on his list then and there, The Man from Everywhere helping, because he can name a plant from its leaves or even the twigs.

I said that I would write to you at once and ask you or Evan to tell us about the best way to transplant all the wild things, except woody shrubs and trees, because we know it’s best to wait for those until leaf fall.  But as it turns out, I’ve waited six days—­oh! such aggravating days when there is so much to decide and do!

That afternoon The Man rode home with us, as a matter of course, we quite forgetting that instead of late dinner, as usual, the meal would be tea, as the Infant and Maria Maxwell are to dine now at one!  As a shower threatened, it seemed much more natural for us to turn into the house than the camp, and before I knew how it happened I was sitting at the head of my own table serving soup instead of tea!  I dared not look at Maria, but as the meal was nearly ended she remarked demurely, looking out of the west window to where the shower was passing off slantwise, leaving a glorious sunset trail in its wake, “Wouldn’t you like to have your coffee in camp, as the rain forced you to take dinner indoors?” by which I knew that Maria would not allow us to lose sight of our outdoor intentions.

Bart laughed, and The Man, gazing around the table innocently said, “Oh, has it begun, and am I intruding and breaking up plans?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

So we went out through the sweet-smelling twilight, or rather the glow that comes before it, and as we idly sipped the coffee, lo and behold, the old farm lay before us—­a dream picture painted by the twilight!  The little window-panes, iridescent with age and bulged into odd shapes by yielding sashes, caught the sunset hues and turned to fire opals; the light mist rising over the green meadows where the flowers now slept with heads bent and eyes closed lent the green and pearl tints of those mysterious gems to which drops of rain or dew strung everywhere made diamond settings.