By Henry Cuyler Bunner
“They certainly are nice people，” I assented to my wife’sobservation， using the colloquial phrase with a consciousnessthat it was anything but “nice” English， “and I’ll bet that theirthree children are better brought up than most of—”
“Two children，” corrected my wife.
“Three， he told me.”
“My dear， she said there were two.”
“He said three.”
“You’ve simply forgotten. I’m sure she told me they hadonly two—a boy and a girl.”
“Well， I didn’t enter into particulars.”
“No， dear， and you couldn’t have understood him. Twochildren.”
“All right，” I said； but I did not think it was all right. As anear-sighted man learns by enforced observation to recognizepersons at a distance when the face is not visible to thenormal eye， so the man with a bad memory learns， almostunconsciously， to listen carefully and report accurately. Mymemory is bad； but I had not had time to forget that Mr.
Brewster Brede had told me that afternoon that he had threechildren， at present left in the care of his mother-in-law， whilehe and Mrs. Brede took their summer vacation.
“Two children，” repeated my wife； “and they are stayingwith his aunt
Jenny.”
“He told me with his mother-in-law，” I put in. My wifelooked at me with a serious expression. Men may notremember much of what they are told about children； but anyman knows the difference between an aunt and a mother-inlaw.
“But don’t you think they’re nice people？” asked my wife.
“Oh， certainly，” I replied. “Only they seem to be a littlemixed up about their children.”
“That isn’t a nice thing to say，” returned my wife. I could notdeny it.
* * * * *
And yet， the next morning， when the Bredes came down andseated themselves opposite us at table， beaming and smilingin their natural， pleasant， well-bred fashion， I knew， to a socialcertainty， that they were “nice” people. He was a fine-lookingfellow in his neat tennis-flannels， slim， graceful， twenty-eightor thirty years old， with a Frenchy pointed beard. She was“nice” in all her pretty clothes， and she herself was pretty withthat type of prettiness which outwears most other types—theprettiness that lies in a rounded figure， a dusky skin， plump，rosy cheeks， white teeth and black eyes. She might have beentwenty-five； you guessed that she was prettier than she was attwenty， and that she would be prettier still at forty.
And nice people were all we wanted to make us happyin Mr. Jacobus’s summer boarding-house on top of OrangeMountain. For a week we had come down to breakfast eachmorning， wondering why we wasted the precious days ofidleness with the company gathered around the Jacobus board.
What joy of human companionship was to be had out of Mrs.
Tabb and Miss Hoogencamp， the two middle-aged gossipsfrom Scranton， Pa.—out of Mr. and Mrs. Biggle， an induratedhead-bookkeeper and his prim and censorious wife—out ofold Major Halkit， a retired business man， who， having oncesold a few shares on commission， wrote for circulars of everystock company that was started， and tried to induce every oneto invest who would listen to him？ We looked around at thosedull faces， the truthful indices of mean and barren minds， anddecided that we would leave that morning. Then we ate Mrs.
Jacobus’s biscuit， light as Aurora’s cloudlets， drank her honestcoffee， inhaled the perfume of the late azaleas with which shedecked her table， and decided to postpone our departure onemore day. And then we wandered out to take our morningglance at what we called “our view”； and it seemed to us as ifTabb and Hoogencamp and Halkit and the Biggleses could notdrive us away in a year.
I was not surprised when， after breakfast， my wife invitedthe Bredes to walk with us to “our view.” The Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkit contingent never stirred off Jacobus’sveranda； but we both felt that the Bredes would not profanethat sacred scene. We strolled slowly across the fields， passedthrough the little belt of woods and， as I heard Mrs. Brede’slittle cry of startled rapture， I motioned to Brede to look up.
“By Jove！” he cried， “heavenly！”
We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteenmiles of billowing green， to where， far across a far stretch ofpale blue lay a dim purple line that we knew was Staten Island.
Towns and villages lay before us and under us； there wereridges and hills， uplands and lowlands， woods and plains， allmassed and mingled in that great silent sea of sunlit green. Forsilent it was to us， standing in the silence of a high place—silent with a Sunday stillness that made us listen， withouttaking thought， for the sound of bells coming up from thespires that rose above the tree-tops—the tree-tops that lay asfar beneath us as the light clouds were above us that droppedgreat shadows upon our heads and faint specks of shade uponthe broad sweep of land at the mountain’s foot.
“And so that is your view？” asked Mrs. Brede， after amoment； “you are very generous to make it ours， too.”
Then we lay down on the grass， and Brede began to talk， ina gentle voice， as if he felt the influence of the place. He hadpaddled a canoe， in his earlier days， he said， and he knew everyriver and creek in that vast stretch of landscape. He found hislandmarks， and pointed out to us where the Passaic and theHackensack flowed， invisible to us， hidden behind great ridgesthat in our sight were but combings of the green waves uponwhich we looked down. And yet， on the further side of thosebroad ridges and rises were scores of villages—a little worldof country life， lying unseen under our eyes.
“A good deal like looking at humanity，” he said； “there issuch a thing as getting so far above our fellow men that we seeonly one side of them.”
Ah， how much better was this sort of talk than the chatterand gossip of the Tabb and the Hoogencamp—than theMajor’s dissertations upon his everlasting circulars！ My wifeand I exchanged glances.
“Now， when I went up the Matterhorn’” Mr. Brede began.
“Why， dear，” interrupted his wife， “I didn’t know you everwent up the Matterhorn.”
