6 THE GARDEN OF A 



crowded about, chattering incessantly of the beauty 

 of the bay and the approach to New York, the 

 returning tourist pausing every few minutes to ask 

 some foreigner how he liked America, then drowning 

 the polite incoherence of the answer by a whirlpool 

 of statistics about the length, breadth, thickness, and 

 cost of the Brooklyn Bridge. I had quite forgotten 

 how very loud we talk hi public and how self-con- 

 scious we are. Very probably, however, I was irri- 

 table; for my heart was leaping on and on to a 

 strip of wild land on a hillside, where pines and 

 forest trees stretch their branches to the sky ; scatter- 

 ing flower beds weave in and out among the shrubs 

 in the southern corner cut into the hillside beneath 

 a bank wall, and half a dozen dogs lie dozing in the 

 sun upon the steps and porch of a rambling low 

 house, where lives my father, the country doctor 

 who carries comfort across the hills to the hard- 

 worked farming people, even as freely as the sun and 

 rain give strength to their crops. 



Could anything be amiss ? Not for the first time, 

 however, had feet travelled faster than a telegram. 

 No sedate gray horses at the station, no dear gray 

 head hi sight ; so taking the first proffer of a trap, I 

 had fled, leaving Evan to wrestle with the luggage 

 and the local teamster. 



