We were in that white room at opposite ends of the long table, and nothing but the immaculate cloth stretching between us. She sat with the doll clutched to her breast, looking straight into my eyes, the doll staring at me also. The girl was such a piece of bewitchment that the poem I brought to her about the magical _Tree of Laughing Bells_ seemed tame to me, and everyday. That foolish rhyme was soon read and put into her hands. It seemed to give her an infinite respect for me. And any human creature loves to be respected. On the back porch the talking grew louder. “Papa is telling them he wants to rent the rest of the farm and move us all to town,” explained Gretchen. It was the soft voice of the young wife we heard: “Of course it will be nice to be nearer my church.” And then the young father’s voice: “And I don’t want Gretchen to grow up on the farm.” And the old man’s voice, still nobly intoned: “And as I say, I don’t want to be stub-born, but I don’t want to cross the coun-ty line.” Gretchen banged the door on them and we crossed the county line indeed. We told each other fairy-tales while the unheeded murmur of debate went on. When it came Gretchen’s turn, she alternated Grimm, and Hans Andersen and the legends of the Roman Church. I had left the railroad resolved to talk some one to death, and now with all my heart I was listening. She knew the tales I had considered my special discoveries in youth: “The Amber Witch,” “The Enchanted Horse,” “The Two Brothers.” She also knew that most pious narrative, _Elsie Dinsmore_. She approved when I told her I had found it not only sad but helpful in my spiritual life. She had found it just so in hers. VII THE SPARE ROOM With her eyes still flashing from argument, the grandmother took me up stairs. She gave me a big bath-towel, and showed me the bath-room, and also my sleeping place. I asked her about the holy pictures hanging near my bed. She explained in a voice that endeavored not to censure: “My daughter-in-law is of German-Catholic descent, and she is _still_ Catholic.” “What is _your_ denomination?” I asked. “My husband and son and I are Congregationalists.” She did not ask it of me, but I said: “I am what is sometimes disrespectfully called a ‘Campbellite.’” But the old lady was gone. After a boiling bath I lay musing under those holy pictures. My brother of the road, when they put you in the best room, as they sometimes do, and you look at the white counterpane and the white sheets and the cosey appointments, do you take these brutally, or do you think long upon the intrinsic generosity of God and man?