Near here Mrs. Paynter was born and spent her girlhood;
here Fifi, before her last illness, had come every Sabbath morning to
the Sunday-school; here lay the little strip of God's acre that the now
childless widow called her own. You come by the new electric line, one
of those high-speed suburban roads which, all over the country, are
doing so much to persuade city people back to the land. The cars are
steam-road size. Two of them had been provided for the mourners, and
there was no room to spare; for the Paynter family connection was large,
and it seemed that little Fifi had many friends.
From Stop 11, where the little station is, your course is by the
woodland path; past the little springhouse, over the tiny rustic bridge,
and so on up the shady slope to the cluster of ancient pines. In the
grove stood carriages; buggy horses reined to the tall trees; even that
abomination around a church, the motor of the vandals. In the walk
through the woods, Queed found himself side by side with a fat,
scarlet-faced man, who wore a vest with brass buttons and immediately
began talking to him like a lifelong friend.
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