She was sitting on the porch of the house--a small figure in the close
blue hat he knew, a figure that seemed as if it had come tired from a
long journey. She had been talking with his mother, but as soon as the
car drew up, Mrs. Crowe rose quickly and went into the house.
Then they were together again.
The instant paid them for all. For the last weeks' bitterness and the
human doubt, the human misunderstandings that had made it. And even as
it opened before them a path some corners and resting-places of which
seemed almost too proud with living for them to dare to be alive on
it--both knew that that fidelity which is intense and of the soul had
ended between them forever an emptier arrogance that both had once
delighted in like bright colors--a brittle pride that lives only by the
falser things in being young.
They had thought they were sure of each other in their first weeks
together--they had said many words about it and some of them clever
enough. But their surety now had no need of any words at all--it had
been too well tempered by desolation to find any obligation for speech
or the calling of itself secure.
They kissed--not as a pleasant gesture, and no fear of looking publicly
ridiculous stopped them.
The screen door behind Nancy pushed open. Jane Ellen appeared, Jane
Ellen, by the look of her, intent upon secret and doubtful business, a
large moth-eaten bear dangling by its leg from one of her plump hands.
She was too concerned with getting her charge through the door to notice
what was happening at first but as soon as she was fairly out on the
porch she looked about her. The bear dropped from her fingers--her eyes
grew rounder than buttons and very large.
“Why it's Oliver and he's kissing Aunt _Nancy_!” she squeaked in a small
voice of reproachful surprise.