So a family group, only, gathered in the hillside parlor, on the fair May morning wherein good, venerable Mr. Holland said the words that made Faith Gartney and Roger Armstrong one.
It was all still, and bright, and simple. Glory, standing modestly by the door, said within herself, "it was like a little piece of heaven."
And afterwards—not the bride and groom—but father, mother, and little brother, said good-by, and went away upon their journey, and left them there. In the quaint, pleasant home, that was theirs now, under the budding elms, with the smile of the May promise pouring in.
And Glory made a May Day at the Old House, by and by. And the little children climbed in the apple branches, and perched there, singing, like the birds.
And was there not a white-robed presence with them, somehow, watching all?
Nearly three months had gone. The hay was down. The distillation of sweet clover was in all the air. The little ones at the Old House were out, in the lengthening shadows of the July afternoon, rolling and reveling in the perfumed, elastic heaps.
Faith Armstrong stood with Glory, in the porch angle, looking on.
Calm and beautiful. Only the joy of birds and children making sound and stir across the summer stillness.
Away over the broad face of the earth, out from such peace as this, might there, if one could look—unroll some vision of horrible contrast? Were blood, and wrath, and groans, and thunderous roar of guns down there under that far, fair horizon, stooping in golden beauty to the cool, green hills?