"To be sure. She came over with us twelve years ago for the pure love of my father and mother; and I believe now she looks upon John and me as her own children. I think she could scarcely love us more if we were so in truth. Thomas you haven't seen Thomas yet, have you?"
"He is an excellent good man in his way, and as faithful as the day is long but he isn't equal to his wife. Perhaps I am partial; Margery came to America for the love of us, and Thomas came for the love of Margery there's a difference."
"Yes; is that what makes you look so astonished?"
"Well, what of that? you won't love me the less, will you?"
"Oh, no," said Ellen; "my own mother came from Scotland, Aunt Fortune says."
"I am English born, Ellen, but you may count me half American, if you like, for I have spent rather more than half my life here. Come this way, Ellen, and I'll show you my garden. It is some distance off, but as near as a spot could be found fit for it."
They quitted the house by a little steep path leading down the mountain, which in two or three minutes brought them to a clear bit of ground. It was not large, but lying very prettily among the trees, with an open view to the east and south-east. On the extreme edge, and at the lower end of it, was fixed a rude bench, well sheltered by the towering forest trees. Here Alice and Ellen sat down.
It was near sunset; the air cool and sweet; the evening light upon field and sky.
"How fair it is!" said Alice, musingly "how fair and lovely! Look at those long shadows of the mountains, Ellen; and how bright the light is on the far hills! It won't be so long. A little while more, and our Indian summer will be over and then the clouds, the frost, and the wind, and the snow. Well let them come."
"I wish they wouldn't, I am sure," said Ellen. "I am sorry enough they are coming."
"Why? all seasons have their pleasures. I am not sorry at all; I like the cold very much."
"I guess you wouldn't, Miss Alice, if you had to wash every morning where I do?"
"The spout of water, Maam, just down a little way from the kitchen door. The water comes in a little, long, very long, trough from a spring at the back of the pig-field; and at the end of the trough, where it pours out, is the spout."