"Queer, isn't it," he
speculated, "how old the tree has grown, and how the brook has stayed
just as young as ever."
"It's the other way around between 'Gene Powers' house and his
pine-tree," commented Aunt Hetty. "The pine-tree gets bigger and finer
and stronger all the time, seems 'sthough, and the house gets more
battered and feeble-looking."
Marise looked across at Marsh and found his eyes on her with an
expression she rarely saw in them, almost a peaceful look, as of a man
who has had something infinitely satisfying fall to his lot. He smiled
at her gently, a good, quiet smile, and looked away into the extravagant
splendor of a row of peonies.
Marise felt an inexplicable happiness, clear and sunny like the light in
the old garden. She sat down on the bench and fell into a more relaxed
and restful pose than she had known for some time. What a sweet and
gracious thing life could be after all! Could there be a lovelier place
on earth than here among Cousin Hetty's flower-children. Dear old Cousin
Hetty, with her wrinkled, stiff exterior, and those bright living eyes
of hers. She was the willow-tree outside and the brook inside, that's
what she was. What tender childhood recollections were bound up with the
sight of that quiet old face.
"And those rose-bushes," continued the old woman, "are all cuttings my
great-great-grandmother brought up from Connecticut, and _they_ came
from cuttings our folks brought over from England, in 1634.
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