But there was adventure in the air as she climbed the hill past the old cemetery, the maples lifting up their bowers of gold. It felt more like September than nearly November, and Ellen soon took off the sweater that she had flung round her shoulders.

The Ark had been well named. It was a brown, shingled barn of a house, gabled and porched on every side, two big chimneys high on the roof. It stood on a hill and was approached through monumental gateposts made of granite stones, in the fashion of the nineties, and through a grove of somber hemlocks and cedars that protected it from the passers-by on the dirt road. The stables and a small barn were out of sight over the crest of the hill.

As Ellen hurried through the shadow of hemlock and out into the sun again, she saw Christina absorbed in planting bulbs, a basket for weeds by her side, her head bent, so she was not aware of her visitor till Ellen called out.

“Hi, Christy!”

“Well”—Christina got awkwardly to her feet—“if it isn’t Ellen! You darling, to come up and see me!”

“I just had to. I’ve found something wonderful for the history—but I’m interrupting.”

“It’s time I stopped. Come on in—or—” Christina hesitated. “It’s so warm, let’s sit on the porch.” She slipped an arm through Ellen’s and they walked together. “I’ve been putting in tulips, a new blue one with crimson and white—hope springs eternal. You know the mice always eat them. But this year I’m trying camphor—maybe it will work. How I love the autumn planting, when all is hope and the garden is just a dream garden without cutworms, mice, or devastating frost in May!

“There,” Christina said, pulling off her gloves. “Tell me!” and Ellen caught the glance bright and warm as that of a mother bird. No one could make one feel welcome in the way Christina did.

“Your eyes are so blue,” Ellen laughed with the blueness of them. Like a jay’s wing, she thought, and she is seventy-five. She turned to look out at the mountain, overwhelmed by the emotion she felt, the commotion of this walk, the sense of life …

“Are they? Oh, it’s so glorious to be here now—not to be in town for once!”

For a moment they sat, looking out at the old spacious mountain, the foreground red and gold with autumn color, the mountain itself dark blue, sharply outlined against the cloudless sky.

“The old thing does look grand,” Christina said. “But tell me now—what have you found? What brought you up the hill?”

And Ellen, suddenly shy, carefully unfolded the worn piece of paper from her pocket.

“Shall I read it to you? The handwriting is rather faint.”

“Do. I don’t have my glasses.”