John was turning the question in his mind all day—where the president should spend his vacation. But each route that he blocked out presented at some point an insuperable obstacle, and he was forced hack to the starting point to begin over.... The place must be far enough from the road so that Simeon would not be reminded of its existence, yet near enough for John to return to his mother at an hour’s notice.  
He had watched her with special care in the days that preceded the directors’ meeting.... If she should grow worse and he could not leave her?
 
But His mind had come to rest hopefully in the look in her face. She would not fail him. She was even more eager than he in planning for his absence—Caleb would be with her, and in the city it was easier than in Bridgewater to get help—the cooking and baking, some of it, could be bought from the little white shop around the corner.—She entered into the plan as if the journey were to be made for her sake rather than for Simeon’s. And John, watching her, knew that she was really better. The change to the new house and its surroundings had been good for her. There was even a little pink tinge in her cheeks sometimes and she declared that the very cracks in the ceiling of the new house were restful to look at as she lay in bed. She had never known how full of pain and wakefulness the old cracks were until they had been suddenly lifted from her. The new cracks should have only hope in them, she said, with a little smile; they should be filled with beautiful things—the light that came in at the east window for her—she had not had an east window at home—and Caleb’s pleasure in his new work and in his garden. Her window overlooked the garden and she lay for hours looking out at it and at the sky.... There was not much in the garden yet. But Caleb pottered about in it, setting out the roots and shrubs he had brought from home, preparing the asparagus bed and strawberry beds, and trimming up the few trees and shrubs that bordered it. He was very contented working in the warm October sun inside the high fence. The roots of his being stirred softly, making ready to strike down into the new mold and rest there gently as they had rested in the old garden at home. By spring he would hardly know the change—any more than the daffodils and the jonquils that he had planted in a corner by the fence with some lilies of the valley.
 
He had been at work in the garden the day of the directors’ meeting, and he watched the Boy as he came slowly up the street, his head bent in thought. Caleb gathered up his tools with little regretful, backward looks. He had meant to set out that last row of asparagus tonight—But it was late and the boy looked tired. He set the asparagus plants in the little shed he had improvised for his tools and covered them carefully against the night air. Then he went into the house.
 
The mother and the Boy were talking in the next room softly and he thought he would not disturb them. He fussed about, setting the table and making tea. Even when they were seated at table, Caleb paid little heed to what was being said; his mind was still digging in the garden, out in the soft mold.
 
Then a word caught his ear and he looked up. “What’s that you were saying, Johnny—about a farm!”
 
“It ’s about President Tetlow. He has to go away, you know!”
 
Caleb’s interest relaxed. “I thought it was something about a farm.” He returned to his plate.
 
“I said I wished there were some farm he could go to—”
 
“Farms enough,” said Caleb.
 
“Do you know a good one?” The boy and his mother both leaned forward. They had turned the question over and over; they had not once thought of Caleb who knew the region by heart.
 
He chewed slowly. “There ’s a place up Chester County way,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on it as he chewed. “I used to work there when I was a boy.”
 
“That’s too far away,” said John.
 
“You want to be nearby, do ye?”
 
“But not too near the railroad.”
 
Caleb’s slow mind started on its new quest.
 
“There ’s a place up from Bridgewater a ways—It ’s off the road. You might hear a toot clear nights, maybe—but much as ever—”
 
“Who owns it?”
 
Caleb shook his head. “Nice folks used to live there—the Griswolds—but I heerd somewhere ’t they’d sold—”
 
A quick look shot into the boy’s face. “You don’t mean the old Bardwell farm!”
 
“That ’s the place,” said Caleb—“I was thinking about that little house on the creek, about half a mile, cross lots, from the farmhouse. Anybody ’d be quiet enough there.”
 
“The Tomlinsons are there,” said John thoughtfully.
 
“There by the creek!” asked Caleb.
 
“No, in the farmhouse. I don’t suppose th............