"It's the hollow of God's hand in which He has gathered His children and
their homes, Betty," he said, huskily. "Look at that white-haired old
grand dame in her frilled frock with the string of chickens following
her and the two kiddies bringing up the rear. And look at that old
red-gray brick house. England has nothing finer."

"That is old Mrs. Georgetta Johnson," I answered, as I waved my hand and
got a stately wave in return. "She is the fifth generation to live in
that house, and the two kiddies are the eighth. Her mother danced with
Lafayette, and she is over eighty-five. I'll take you to see her some
day."

"Betty," said Peter, with positive awe, "I have never seen such homes
and furniture and people as I have found here. What is it that makes it
so--so satisfying?"

"It must be that everything has had time to root here, people and all,"
I answered as I again avoided a farm wagon and a negro driving two fine
milk-cows with cow babies wobbling along at their flanks.

"Yes," answered Peter, thoughtfully--"yes, I should say that 'rooted'
would about express the life, and I am wondering--" But just here we
turned off into Brier Lane, and Peter went up in the air and began to
float among the tree-tops, only being able to take in the high-lights
like the gnarled old cedars that jutted out from the lichen-covered
stone wall and hung over the moss-green snake-rail fences, or the old
oaks which were beginning to draw young, green loveliness around them,
or the feathery buckbushes and young hackberries that were harboring all
varieties of mating birds who were wooing and flirting and cheeping baby
talk in a delightfully confidential and unabashed manner. Peter had