John was turning the question in his mind all day—where the president should spend his vacation. But each route that he blocked out presented at some point an insuperable obstacle, and he was forced hack to the starting point to begin over.... The place must be far enough from the road so that Simeon would not be reminded of its existence, yet near enough for John to return to his mother at an hour’s notice.

He had watched her with special care in the days that preceded the directors’ meeting.... If she should grow worse and he could not leave her?

But His mind had come to rest hopefully in the look in her face. She would not fail him. She was even more eager than he in planning for his absence—Caleb would be with her, and in the city it was easier than in Bridgewater to get help—the cooking and baking, some of it, could be bought from the little white shop around the corner.—She entered into the plan as if the journey were to be made for her sake rather than for Simeon’s. And John, watching her, knew that she was really better. The change to the new house and its surroundings had been good for her. There was even a little pink tinge in her cheeks sometimes and she declared that the very cracks in the ceiling of the new house were restful to look at as she lay in bed. She had never known how full of pain and wakefulness the old cracks were until they had been suddenly lifted from her. The new cracks should have only hope in them, she said, with a little smile; they should be filled with beautiful things—the light that came in at the east window for her—she had not had an east window at home—and Caleb’s pleasure in his new work and in his garden. Her window overlooked the garden and she lay for hours looking out at it and at the sky.... There was not much in the garden yet. But Caleb pottered about in it, setting out the roots and shrubs he had brought from home, preparing the asparagus bed and strawberry beds, and trimming up the few trees and shrubs that bordered it. He was very contented working in the warm October sun inside the high fence. The roots of his being stirred softly, making ready to strike down into the new mold and rest there gently as they had rested in the old garden at home. By spring he would hardly know the change—any more than the daffodils and the jonquils that he had planted in a corner by the fence with some lilies of the valley.

He had been at work in the garden the day of the directors’ meeting, and he watched the Boy as he came slowly up the street, his head bent in thought. Caleb gathered up his tools with little regretful, backward looks. He had meant to set out that last row of asparagus tonight—But it was late and the boy looked tired. He set the asparagus plants in the little shed he had improvised for his tools and covered them carefully against the night air. Then he went into the house.

The mother and the Boy were talking in the next room softly and he thought he would not disturb them. He fussed about, setting the table and making tea. Even when they were seated at table, Caleb paid little heed to what was being said; his mind was still digging in the garden, out in the soft mold.

Then a word caught his ear and he looked up. “What’s that you were saying, Johnny—about a farm!”

“It ’s about President Tetlow. He has to go away, you know!”

Caleb’s interest relaxed. “I thought it was something about a farm.” He returned to his plate.

“I said I wished there were some farm he could go to—”

“Farms enough,” said Caleb.

“Do you know a good one?” The boy and his mother both leaned forward. They had turned the question over and over; they had not once thought of Caleb who knew the region by heart.

He chewed slowly. “There ’s a place up Chester County way,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on it as he chewed. “I used to work there when I was a boy.”

“That’s too far away,” said John.

“You want to be nearby, do ye?”

“But not too near the railroad.”

Caleb’s slow mind started on its new quest.

“There ’s a place up from Bridgewater a ways—It ’s off the road. You might hear a toot clear nights, maybe—but much as ever—”

“Who owns it?”

Caleb shook his head. “Nice folks used to live there—the Griswolds—but I heerd somewhere ’t they’d sold—”

A quick look shot into the boy’s face. “You don’t mean the old Bardwell farm!”

“That ’s the place,” said Caleb—“I was thinking about that little house on the creek, about half a mile, cross lots, from the farmhouse. Anybody ’d be quiet enough there.”

“The Tomlinsons are there,” said John thoughtfully.

“There by the creek!” asked Caleb.

“No, in the farmhouse. I don’t suppose there’s anybody in the little house.”

“It could be fitted up,” said his mother quickly. “That ’s better than boarding; and you must not do the work—with all that will come on you besides. Mrs. Tomlinson would cook for you.”

“Ellen Tomlinson is a powerful good cook,” said Caleb solemnly. “I ’ve et her victuals many a time.”

“I ’ll go down tomorrow,” said John. “We can have the little house, I know—It belongs to the road—and I ’ll put in a few camping things. If Ellen won’t cook for us, we ’ll make shift somehow.”

“You must not do it,” said his mother.

“It’s good air,” said Caleb, “—High up.”

“And very still there—the top of the world,” said his mother with a little flitting sigh.

“It’s just the place,” said John. Then he hesitated a minute. Hugh Tomlinson’s face had suddenly flashed before him—the red-rimmed eyes and the high, quavering voice.... Would Simeon object to his presence? He had always refused to speak of Tomlinson and he was gruffly silent when his name was mentioned.... But he had put him on the farm—rent-free—and he had sent the cheque—a thousand dollars.... John weighed the chances... and even while he hesitated, an instinct deeper than reason told him that the old Scotchman’s presence must be concealed from Simeon.... He might not mind. But there must be no risk.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I ’ll go down to see the Tomlinsons and get the house ready.”

The old Scotchman surveyed him with keen eyes. “He wants to come here?—Sim Tetlow wants to come here—to this farm!”

“Not here,” said John. “He ’ll be at the little house—down by the creek, you know.” The switchman was silent for a little. “A man can do what he likes wi’ his own,” he said at last gruffly. “He owns the farm—I ’ll go—”

“I hope you won’t go,” John said quickly. “We need some one to cook for us—good nourishing food—and I was going to ask your wife—?”

The old man’s eyes still pierced him. “Ye think Sim Tetlow ’ll get well on food ’t my Ellen ’d cook?—Choke him!” he said.

John waited a minute. “I was n’t going to tell him who cooked it—I thought he did n’t need to know.” He turned and looked at the man beside him. “He needs all the help we can give him, Hugh. He’s desperate.”

A slow, deep smile had come into the Scotch eyes—They glimmered to little points and sought the distant horizon. “He must e’en take his fate,” said the old man grimly, “wi’ the rest o’ us.”

“But we can help him,” said John. “I feel it. You can help—”

“I ’ll do naught for him,” said the man sternly. “She’s within door, and ye can ask her. If she ’ll cook for Sim Tetlow, I ’ll bide by what she says. I ’ll not lift a hand to hinder—or help.” He moved toward the bam, walking with huge strides, like some grim, implacable fate.

John watched him for a moment. Then he turned and knocked on the farmhouse door.

When he lifted the latch, the little old woman by the stove looked up, bending gentle eyes upon him. She set down the frying-pan and came forward, The smile in her face like the October sunshine outside. “It’s Johnny Bennett,” she said, “and I was telling Hugh, but the morning, I’d be glad to see him.”

The young man took the outstretched hand with a sudden lifting of heart. He forgot the gaunt figure striding from him and saw only the gentle, wrinkled face in its prim Scotch cap, beaming with light.

In a dozen words he had laid the story before her. She listened with intent eyes, her fingers plaiting the edge of her apron in tiny folds. When he had finished, the apron dropped from her fingers and she smoothed the pleats one by one.

“He’s been a hard man to us, Johnny.”

“Yes.”

“But I ’ll do it for ye.”

“I knew you would.” It came from a full heart, and she smiled a little to him as she gave a final, smoothing touch to the apron. “He sent us the check, and it was bitter bread we bought wi’ it. But the bread I bake for him will be sweet,” she said.

“Thank you, Ellen.” He held out his hand. “It ’s good in you to do it, and what money can pay for—you shall have, you know.”

“Money won’t pay for the bread I shall bake him, Johnny,” she said slowly. “But he’s welcome to it and may the Lord bless it—to him.”