and in the spring of the Year of Scaffolding she would go with me day after day to the seat that showed them in the greatest multitude.
It gave her, I think, among other agreeable impressions, a sense of gentle opulence. In the old time she had never known what it was to have more than enough of anything agreeable in the world at all.
We would sit and think, or talk--there was a curious effect of complete understanding between us whether we talked or were still.
"Heaven," she said to me one day, "Heaven is a garden."
I was moved to tease her a little. "There's jewels, you know, walls and gates of jewels--and singing."
"For such as like them," said my mother firmly, and thought for a while. "There'll b things for all of us, o' course. But for me it couldn't be Heaven, dear, unless it was a garden. . . . And feeling such as we're fond of, are close and handy by."
You of your happier generation cannot realise the wonderfulness of those early days in the new epoch, the sense of security, the extraordinary effects of contrast. In the morning, except in high summer, I was up before dawn, and breakfasted upon the swift, smooth train, and perhaps saw the sunrise as I rushed out of
