ite
sweetness.

He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of young
lover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted to
snatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background for
the lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fine
occasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were so
pretty! If he could even hold her hand!

But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irish
villages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Then
wastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be.

"That is the house over there," she said.

"I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?"

"Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!"

Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly,
square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space where
the trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs and
dogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts all
the later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect.
Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The old
house was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had been
cut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. The
cousin had thrown it up in disgust.

But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour of
childhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies in
rocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman and
Katschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.

"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which
there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's
descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking
men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."

It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he
admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.

And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is
neglected and dying!

"After all, it _is_ the people who give the charm to places,--the loving
care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too
valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people
who must have homes."

These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has
caught them from John.