There was a warm, flower-scented breeze stirring the heavy foliage
drenched with the silver rain of moonlight, and the shrilling of
innumerable small voices of the night. It all belonged; yet neither the
man nor the woman noticed anything except each other; nor heard
anything save the words the other uttered.
“To think that you love me, Lydia!” he said, triumph and humility
curiously mingled in his voice.
“How could I help it, Jim? I could never have borne it all, if you—”
“Really, Lydia?”
He looked down into her face which the moonlight had spiritualized to
the likeness of an angel.
She smiled and slipped her hand into his.
They were alone in the universe, so he stooped and kissed her,
murmuring inarticulate words of rapture.
After uncounted minutes they walked slowly on, she within the circle of
his arm, her blond head against the shoulder of his rough tweed coat.
“When shall it be, Lydia?” he asked.
She blushed—even in the moonlight he could see the adorable flutter of
color in her face.
“I am all alone in the world, Jim,” she said, rather sadly. “I have no
one but you.”
“I’ll love you enough to make up for forty relations!” he declared.
“And, anyway, as soon as we’re married you’ll have mother and Fan
and—er—”
He made a wry face, as it occurred to him for the first time that the
Reverend Wesley Elliot was about to become Lydia’s brother-in-law.
The girl laughed.
“Haven’t you learned to like him yet?” she inquired teasingly.
“I can stand him for a whole hour at a time now, without experiencing a
desire to kick him,” he told her. “But why should we waste time talking
about Wesley Elliot?”
Lydia appeared to be considering his question with some seriousness.
“Why, Jim,” she said, looking straight up into his eyes with the
innocent candor he had loved in her from the beginning, “Mr. Elliot
will expect to marry us.”
“That’s so!” conceded Jim; “Fan will expect it, too.”
He looked at her eagerly:
“Aren’t you in a hurry for that wonderful brother-in-law, Lydia? Don’t
you think—?”
The smile on her face was wonderful now; he felt curiously abashed by
it, like one who has inadvertently jested in a holy place.
“Forgive me, dearest,” he murmured.
“If you would like—if it is not too soon—my birthday is next Saturday.
Mother used to make me a little party on my birthday, so I thought—it
seemed to me—and the roses are all in bloom.”
There was only one way to thank her for this halting little speech: he
took her in his arms and whispered words which no one, not even the
crickets in the hedge could hear, if crickets ever were listeners, and
not the sole chorus on their tiny stage of life.