His Friend by Pansy

IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day, but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle; the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.

It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.