“I do believe it’s a kind of Providence!” and drew a letter from his pocket, which he had only two days before received from Stephen White.  “Mercy,” he went on, “I believe I’ve got the very thing you want right here;” and he read her the concluding paragraph of the letter, in which Stephen had said:  “Meantime, I am waiting as patiently as I can for a tenant for the other half of this house.  It seems to be very hard to find just the right sort of person.  I cannot take in any of the mill operatives.  They are noisy and untidy; and the bare thought of their being just the other side of the partition would drive my mother frantic.  I wish so much I could get some people in that would be real friends for her.  She is very lonely.  She never leaves her bed; and I have to be away all day.”

Mercy’s face lighted up.  She liked the sound of each word that this unknown man wrote.  Very eagerly she questioned Mr. Allen about the town, its situation, its healthfulness, and so forth.  As he gave her detail after detail, she nodded her head with increasing emphasis, and finally exclaimed:  “That is precisely such a spot as Dr. Wheeler said we ought to go to.  I think you’re right, Mr. Allen.  It’s a Providence.  And I’d be so glad to be good to that poor old woman, too.  What a companion she’d be for mother! that is, if I could keep them from comparing notes for ever about their diseases.  That’s the worst of putting invalid old women together,” laughed Mercy with a kindly, merry little laugh.

Mr. Allen had visited Penfield only once.  When he and Stephen were boys at school together, he had passed one of the short vacations at Stephen’s house.  He remembered very little of Stephen’s father and mother, or of their way of life.  He was at the age when house and home mean little to boys, except a spot where shelter and food are obtained in the enforced intervals between their hours of out-door life.  But he had never forgotten the grand out-look and off-look from the town.  Lying itself high up on the western slope of what must once have been a great river terrace, it commanded a view of a wide and fertile meadow country, near enough to be a most beautiful feature in the landscape, but far enough away to prevent any danger from its moisture.  To the south and south-west rose a fine range of mountains, bold and sharp-cut, though they were not very high, and were heavily wooded to their summits.  The westernmost peak of this range was separated from the rest by a wide river, which had cut its way through in some of those forgotten ages when, if we are to believe the geologists, every thing was topsy-turvy on this now meek and well-regulated planet.

The town, although, as I said, it lay on the western slope of a great river terrace, held in its site three distinctly marked plateaus.  From the two highest of these, the views were grand.  It was like living on a mountain, and yet there was the rich beauty of coloring of the river interval.  Nowhere in all New England was there a fairer country than this to look upon, nor a goodlier one in which to live.