m which
I knew well enough I could catch the first glimpse of my farm. For
a moment after I reached the top I could not raise my eyes, and when
finally I was able to raise them I could not see.

"There is a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--" So
runs the old song.

There IS a spot in Arcady, and at the centre of it there is a
weather-worn old house, and not far away a perfect oak tree, and green
fields all about, and a pleasant stream fringed with alders in the
little valley. And out of the chimney into the sweet, still evening air
rises the slow white smoke of the supper-fire.

I turned from the main road, and climbed the fence and walked across
my upper field to the old wood lane. The air was heavy and sweet with
clover blossoms, and along the fences I could see that the raspberry
bushes were ripening their fruit.

So I came down the lane and heard the comfortable grunting of pigs in
the pasture lot and saw the calves licking one another as they stood at
the gate.

"How they've grown!" I said.

I stopped at the corner of the barn for a moment. From within I heard
the rattling of milk in a pail (a fine sound), and heard a man's voice
saying:

"Whoa, there! Stiddy now!"

"Dick's milking," I said.

So I stepped in at the doorway.

"Lord, Mr. Grayson!" exclaimed Dick, rising instantly and clasping my
hand like a long-lost brother.

"I'm glad to see you!"

"I'm glad to see YOU!"

The warm smell of the new milk, the pleasant sound of animals stepping
about in the stable, the old mare reaching her long head over the
stanchion to welcome me, and nipping at my fingers when I rubbed her
nose--

And there was the old house with the late sun upon it, the vines hanging
green over the porch, Harriet's trim flower bed--I crept along quietly
to the corner. The kitchen door stood open.

"Well, Harriet!" I said, stepping inside.

"Mercy! David!"

I have rarely known Harriet to be in quite such a reckless mood. She
kept thinking of a new kind of sauce or jam for supper (I think there
were seven, or were there twelve? on the table before I got through).
And there was a new rhubarb pie such as only Harriet can make, just
brown enough on top, and not too brown, with just the right sort of
hills and hummocks in the crust, and here and there little sugary
bubbles where a suggestion of the goodness came through--such a pie--!
and such an appetite to go with it!

"Harriet," I said, "you're spoiling