She watches as she wrings out the laundry on the pavement he set for her outside the back door to the smial, watches him puttering with the roses or weeding amongst the lilies, checking for caterpillars on the lilac bushes or cultivating the herbaceous border. It’s still a wonder to her that he came back--came back to her, to the Shire, after all he’s been through, after the strange lands he’s seen, after the dangers he’s survived and the wonders he’s experienced.
How can anyone who’s fled Black Riders and known the dreamy glory of the Golden Wood or the magnificence of the King’s White City find comfort in the mundane world of holes and low houses, fields and villages? And how can one who’s stood in the presence of the golden Lady and her dark-tressed granddaughter be satisfied with a mere farmer’s daughter? How can one who’s withstood the temptation of the Ring bear to listen to the silly arguments of Tunnelies and Proudfoots as to where a boundary stone had been originally placed, or have the patience to examine interminable documents, weeding out specious arguments and cheating phrases?
Yet he’s done this and more, and comes home three to four days a week from Michel Delving to rejoice in her company and his children’s growth and accomplishments.
And yet, for all most of his heart is here, here in Bag End under the Hill, she still catches him paused, his eyes turned westward, for an important part of his heart is there, waiting for his coming one day.
But that day isn’t yet, not while she remains here for him to come home to. And she finds she has pity for the one who waits there--some pity, at least.
But for now he will be whole and happy here with her and with their children, here where the Creator planted him.