The Hollys themselves learned much.

They learned that the rose of sunset and the gold of sunrise were worth looking at; and that the massing of the thunderheads in the west meant more than just a shower.
They learned, too, that the green of the hilltop and of the far-reaching meadow was more than grass, and that the purple haze along the horizon was more than the mountains that lay between them and the next State.

They were beginning to see the world with David's eyes.
There were, too, the long twilights and evenings when David, on the wings of his violin, would speed away to his mountain home, leaving behind him a man and a woman who seemed to themselves to be listening to the voice of a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked lad who once played at their knees and nestled in their arms when the day was done.

And here, too, the Hollys were learning; though the thing thus learned was hidden deep in their hearts.
It was not long after David's first visit that the boy went again to "The House that Jack Built," as the Gurnseys called their tiny home.
(Though in reality it had been Jack's father who had built the house.
Jack and Jill, however, did not always deal with realities.) It was not a pleasant afternoon.

There was a light mist in the air, and David was without his violin.
"I came to--to inquire for the cat--Juliette," he began, a little bashfully.