Were these two to go on, dreaming, and calling to each other "through the dreamland," and never, in the daylight, and their waking hours, speak out?
This thought, in vague shape, turned itself, restlessly, in Glory's brain.
Other brains revolved a like thought, also.
"Somebody talked about a 'ripe pear,' once. I wonder if that one isn't ever going to fall!"
Nurse Sampson wondered thus, as she settled Miss Henderson in her armchair before the window, and they saw Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney walk up the field together in the sunset light.
"I suppose it wouldn't take much of a jog to do it. But, maybe, it's as well to leave it to the Lord's sunshine. He'll ripen it, if He sees fit."
"It's a pretty picture, anyhow. There's the new moon exactly over their right shoulders, if they'd only turn their heads to look at it. I don't think much of signs; but, somehow, I always do like to have that one come right!"
"Well, it's there, whether they've found it out, or not," replied Aunt Faith.
Glory sat on the flat doorstone. She had the invariable afternoon knitting work in her hand; but hand and work had fallen to her lap, and her eyes were away upon the glittering, faint crescent of the moon, that pierced the golden mist of sunset. Close by, the evening star had filled his chalice of silver splendor.
"The star and the moon only see each other. I can see both. It is better."