Chapter 3

Friend Cat still refused to be excited. He purred placidly and winked
one eye at Margaret.

“I want you to do me a favor, Miss Irwin,” Jim went on, when Mrs.
Kennedy had gone out, “I want you to come up to my house—_my_ house—my
_house_—excuse me, I _have_ to say it—I _have_ to try how it sounds
every way—and look it over; tell me what you think of it. I want to
make it convenient for Isabel—for I’m not such a fool as to imagine
that a woman can keep on loving a man who doesn’t provide her with
proper cupboards.”

“I’ll be delighted!” said Margaret sincerely. Jim looked grateful.

“You’re too good to be true—almost,” he said. “What nice things women
are! Women—and dear little houses with kind, quiet trees about them!
Hurry up and finish eating. I want to take you right up to mine. There’s
a short cut to it up the hill. Never mind a hat—you don’t want a hat on
an evening like this. I like the thought of that smooth brown head of
yours slipping through the gray-green trunks and the long green boughs.
Your hair is just the brown that belongs to the woods.”

As they went out, Margaret remembered that this was the first compliment
she had ever received—if it were a compliment. Yes it was—Jim’s eyes
told her that. She tasted it all the way up the long hill. The little,
winding path was so narrow they had to walk in single file. Margaret
went first and Friend Cat followed, waving his tail, and Jim brought up
the rear. It was a lovely path; ferns grew all along it and the
dew-moist air was pungent with the aroma of young, sun-steeped firs.
Before the last turn Jim overtook her with one long stride and put his
hands over her eyes.

* * * * *

“Go on like this,” he commanded, “and don’t open your eyes till I say
you can.”

[Illustration: _She knew Isabel would be crazy over this old willowware
set_]

Margaret obeyed delightedly. A few more steps—and Jim took his hands
away.

“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “Oh!” Something seemed to sweep over her soul.
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. It _hurt_ her to look at Jim’s
house—yet she liked the hurt.

It was a little gray house that looked as if it had never been built,
but had just grown up in that wild, ferny, woodsy corner—like a
toadstool. It was low-eaved, with odd, little diamond-paned windows. Its
gray roof was mottled with fat cushions of moss—like green velvet mice.
Two big pine trees joined their branches right over it. There was a
porch over the front door, covered with honeysuckle. Behind it tall
spires of fir stood out against gray-pink shades of evening. Robins were
whistling wildly in the firs. The woods were all around the house except
on the south side, where the land fell away in a long hill, looking down
on Glenby. Between the house and the view, but not hiding it, was a row
of wonderful Lombardy poplars. And between their trunks, far away
through the crystal-clear evening air, rose a great, round, full moon.

“Girl—you’re crying!” said Jim.

“It’s—all so lovely—it hurts,” said Margaret.

“I knew you’d like it—but I didn’t expect you’d like it as much as
that,” said Jim. “You don’t know half its charms yet, either. Wait until
it gets dark and you see the lights of Glenby twinkling out down there
and all over that hill. And this hill is full of squirrels—I love
squirrels, don’t you? Friend Cat likes them, too—he catches them—I’ve
got to break him of it. There are any number of shy rabbits, too. And
bats—it’s a great place for bats. I like ’em—nice, queer, creepy,
mysterious creatures, coming out of nowhere. There’s one now—s-s-woop!
And there’s a little mossy hollow behind those young firs that’s full of
violets in spring—violets!

‘Sweeter than the lids of Isabel’s eyes
Or Isabel’s breath.’

“Isabel’s a nicer name than Cytherea or Juno, isn’t it? And I want you
to notice especially that little gate over yonder. It isn’t really
needed—it opens only into the woods. But _isn’t_ it a gate? I love a
gate like that—it’s full of promise. There _may_ be something wonderful
beyond. A gate is always a mystery anyhow—it lures—it is a symbol.
That’s a nice bit of garden, too, don’t you think? Of course I haven’t
much land, but the sky is all mine.”

Margaret thought she could have stood there forever listening to Jim’s
lazy, laughing voice at her shoulder. But Friend Cat flew through the
garden after a bat and Jim led her into the house. It was as dear and
lovable inside as out. It was a house where there had been brides and
mothers, and their happiness seemed to linger in it like a perfume.
Margaret fancied she saw Isabel there—lovely, golden-haired Isabel,
flitting through the little rooms, laughing under the firs, sitting hand
in hand with Jim before the fireplace.

* * * * *

“Will you let me help you fix this house up for you—for Isabel?” she
said softly.

“Oh, will you?” he cried. “How I wanted to ask you—and I was afraid
you’d hate to be bothered. I need a woman’s help in heaps of ways. My
brother’s wife is a jewel, but certain things are holden from her eyes.
_You’ll_ know just what Isabel would like—I was sure of that the moment
I saw you. And you’ll help me! Oh, you nice little thing! You _nice_
little thing!”

He was squeezing her hands so hard that he hurt her, but she did not
flinch. She had never been so happy in her life. What a joy it would be
to help fix up this darling place for beautiful Isabel. Margaret felt
she loved Isabel herself, for her beauty, her charm, her loyalty, her
laughter. She would do her very best to make this house, where Isabel
would be queen, perfect in its way.

“I won’t paint it,” said Jim. “I want it left its own woodsy gray. But
inside it must be painted—and things bought to put in it. That’s where
I need your help. I don’t know a darn thing about furnishing a house and
I’ve precious little money left. I wasn’t going to have a cent of debt
on this place. But I must get things—for _her_—somehow.”

“We’ll get them,” said Margaret. “I’ll help you paint—I can paint
beautifully.”

“And you’re _sure_ it won’t be a nuisance?” said Jim anxiously. “You
ought to be resting, I suppose—you’re not strong.”

“It will be the greatest treat of my life,” cried Margaret. “And it will
be the right kind of a rest. Oh—we’ve been here half an hour—and I
feel as if I’d known this house all my life. When you and Isabel are
living here I’m coming to visit you whether you ask me or not—but I
won’t stay long. I’ll just come and look at the house—and see if you’re
using it right—and if you _deserve_ it—and then go away again.”

* * * * *