of the quadrangle of soil back of his house, and at the revelations she
made to him of what could lie sleeping under a mysterious blank surface
of earth. Why, a piece of old ground was like a person. You had to know
it, to have any idea of all that was hidden in its bosom, good and bad.
"There never was such a place for pigweed as the lower end of your
vegetable lot," she told him; "you'll have to get up nights to fight it
if there is plenty of rain this summer." And again, "Be careful about
not digging too close to the east wall of your terrace. There is a
border of peonies there, splendid pink ones, and you're likely to break
off the shoots. They don't show so early as the red ones near the walk,
that get more sun."

"Did you ever use to _live_ in that house?" he asked her, respectful of
her mastery of its secrets.

She laughed. "No, oh no. We've lived right here all the eleven years of
our life in Vermont. But there's another side to the local wireless
information-bureau that let me know all about you before you ever got
here. We all know all about everybody and everything, you know. If you
live in the country you're really married to humanity, for better or for
worse, 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."