“To you?”
“Yes. Of course, I don’t own it. But haven’t you sometimes seen houses that you knew belonged to you no matter who owned them?”
No, Ilse hadn’t. She hadn’t the least idea what Emily meant.
“I know who owns that house,” she said. “It’s Mr. Scobie of Kingsport. He built it for a summer cottage. I heard Aunt Net talking of it the last time I was in Wiltney. It was finished a few weeks ago. It’s a pretty little house, but too small for me. I like a big house—I don’t want to feel cramped and crowded—especially in summer.”
“It’s hard for a big house to have any personality,” said Emily thoughtfully. “But little houses almost always have. That house is full of it. There isn’t a line or a corner that isn’t eloquent, and those casement windows are lovable—especially that little one high up under the eaves over the front door. It’s absolutely smiling at me. Look at it glowing like a jewel in the sunshine out of the dark shingle setting. The little house is greeting us. You dear friendly thing, I love you—I understand you. As Old Kelly would say, ‘may niver a tear be shed under your roof.’ The people who are going to live in you must be nice people or they would never have thought you. If I lived in you, beloved, I’d always stand at that western window at evening to wave to some one coming home. That is just exactly what that window was built for—a frame for love and welcome.”
“When you get through with talking to your house we'd better hurry on,” warned Ilse. “There’s a storm coming up. See those clouds—and those sea-gulls. Gulls never come up this far except before a storm. It’s going to rain any minute. We'll not sleep on a haystack tonight, Friend Emily.”
Emily loitered. past the little house and looked at it lovingly as long as she could. It was such a dear little place with its dubbed-off gables and rich, brown shingle
