Yes, the keeper of the tower says, they are Mrs. ---- and Miss ----; one lives in the first house, the other in the second. Now they are leaving the pasture, stopping once in a while to strip an uncommonly inviting bush (so I interpret their movements), and we follow them with our eyes. The older one, a portly body, walks halfway across a broad field with her companion, seeing her so far homeward,--and perhaps finishing a savory dish of gossip,--and then returns to her own house, still accompanied by the dog. Scarcity of neighbors conduces to neighborliness. The men who live in such houses, the keeper tells me, are very wide-awake and well informed, reading their weekly newspaper with thoroughness, and always ready for rational talk on current topics. They are not rich, of course, in the down-country sense of the word, and see very little money, subsisting mainly upon the produce of the farm; a matter of twenty-five dollars a year may cover all their expenditures; but they are better fed, and really live in more comfort, than a great part of the folks who live in cities. I am glad to believe it; and I like the man’s way of standing by his neighbors. In fact, I think highly of him as a person of a good heart and no small discrimination; and therefore I am all the gladder when, having left the summit and stopped for a minute in the shade of a tree, I overhear him say to the musician, “That old man enjoys himself; he’s a _nice_ old man.” “Thank you,” say I, not aloud, but with deep inward sincerity; “that’s one of the best compliments I’ve had for many a day.” Blessings on this mountain air, that makes human speech unintentionally audible. An old man that enjoys himself is pretty near to my ideal of respectable senility. “Thank you,” I repeat; “that’s praise, and faith, I’ll print it.” And so I will, pleasing myself, let the ungentle reader--if I have one--think what he may. A good name is more to brag of than a million of money. Yes, I am enjoying myself (why not?), and I loiter down the road with a light heart (an old man should be used to going downhill), pausing by the way to notice a little group--a family party, it is reasonable to guess--of golden-crowned kinglets. One of them, the only one I see fully, has a plain crown, showing neither black stripes nor central orange patch. But for his unmistakable _zee-zee-zee_, which he is considerate enough to utter while I am looking at him, he might be taken for a ruby-crown. So the lover of beauty and the hobbyist descend the hill together, keeping step like inseparable friends. And so may it be to the end of the chapter. INDEX INDEX Adder’s-mouth, 149. Arbutus, trailing, 57, 91, 133. Aster Lindleyanus, 5, 181. Azalea, Lapland, 140. Beech-fern, 146. Blueberries, alpine, 24. Bluebird, 123, 125, 209, 210, 234. Bobolink, 97, 110, 117, 213. Butterflies, 10, 28, 36, 123, 145, 172. Catbird, 29, 106, 117, 189, 191. Cedar-bird, 15, 187.