In its outlying parts, moreover, stately villas now stood in the midst of grounds hedged, levelled, sprayed, shaven, trimmed and garnished—­grounds cherished sacredly with a reverence like unto that once accorded the Front Room in this same village.  Edom, indeed, had outgrown its villagehood as a country boy in the city will often outgrow his home ways.  That is, it was still a village in its inmost heart; but outwardly, at its edges, the distinctions and graces of urban worldliness had come upon it.

All this from the happy circumstance that Edom lay in a dale of beauty not too far from the blessed centre of things requisite.  First, one by one, then by families, then by groups of families, then by cliques, the invaders had come to promote Edom’s importance; one being brought by the gracious falling of its little hills; one by its narrow valleys where the quick little waters come down; one by the clearness of its air; and one by the cheapness with which simple old farms might be bought and converted into the most city-like of country homes.

The old stock of Edom had early learned not to part with any massive claw-footed sideboard with glass knobs, or any mahogany four-poster, or tall clock, or high-boy, except after feigning a distressed reluctance.  It had learned also to hide its consternation at the prices which this behaviour would eventually induce the newcomers to pay for such junk.  Indeed, it learned very soon to be a shrewd valuer of old mahogany, pewter, and china; even to suspect that the buyers might perceive beauties in it that justified the prices they paid.

Old Edom, too, has its own opinion of the relative joys of master and servant, the latter being always debonair, their employers stiff, formal and concerned.  It conceives that the employers, indeed, have but one pleasure:  to stand beholding with anxious solemnity—­quite as if it were the performance of a religious rite—­the serious-visaged men who daily barber the lawns and hedges.  It is suspected by old Edomites that the menials, finding themselves watched at this delicate task, strive to copy in face and demeanour the solemnity of the observing employer—­clipping the box hedge one more fraction of an inch with the wariest caution—­maintaining outwardly, in short, a most reverent seriousness which in their secret hearts they do not feel.

Let this be so or not.  The point is that Edom had gone beyond its three churches of Calvin, Wesley and Luther—­to say nothing of one poor little frame structure with a cross at the peak, where a handful of benighted Romanists had long been known to perform their idolatrous rites.  Now, indeed, as became a smartened village, there was a perfect little Episcopal church of redstone, stained glass and painted shingles, with a macadam driveway leading under its dainty porte-cochere, and at the base of whose stern little tower an eager ivy already aspired; a toy-like, yet suggestively imposing edifice, quite in the manner of smart suburban churches—­a manner that for want of accurate knowledge one might call confectioner’s gothic.