I helped him with his milking both that night and the next morning, and found his situation and family most interesting--but I shall not here enlarge upon that experience.
It was late afternoon when I finally surmounted the hill from which I knew well enough I could catch the first glimpse of my farm.

For a moment after I reached the top I could not raise my eyes, and when finally I was able to raise them I could not see.
"There is a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--" So runs the old song.
There IS a spot in Arcady, and at the centre of it there is a weather-worn old house, and not far away a perfect oak tree, and green fields all about, and a pleasant stream fringed with alders in the little valley.

And out of the chimney into the sweet, still evening air rises the slow white smoke of the supper-fire.
I turned from the main road, and climbed the fence and walked across my upper field to the old wood lane.

The air was heavy and sweet with clover blossoms, and along the fences I could see that the raspberry bushes were ripening their fruit.
So I came down the lane and heard the comfortable grunting of pigs in the pasture lot and saw the calves licking one another as they stood at the gate.
"How they've grown!" I said.
I stopped at the corner of the barn for a moment.

From within I heard the rattling of milk in a pail (a fine sound), and heard a man's voice saying: "Whoa, there! Stiddy now!" "Dick's milking," I said.
So I stepped in at the doorway.
"Lord, Mr.Grayson!" exclaimed Dick, rising instantly and clasping my hand like a long-lost brother.
"I'm glad to see you!" "I'm glad to see YOU!" The warm smell of the new milk, the pleasant sound of animals stepping about in the stable, the old mare reaching her long head over the stanchion to welcome me, and nipping at my fingers when I rubbed her nose-- And there was the old house with the late sun upon it, the vines hanging green over the porch, Harriet's trim flower bed--I crept along quietly to the corner.