That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had
the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done
anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in
the road and found themselves in the "Avenue."

The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a
stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely
arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted
years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long
canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air
was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of
painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end
of a cathedral aisle.

Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back
in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face
lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when
they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to
Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face
she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw
visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background.
Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs
barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces
peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When
three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had
not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as
energetically as she could talk.

"I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry,"