“Are not the delphiniums in perfection? They always look to me as if they were praying.”
Now years ago, standing in just that selfsame spot, Dick Carey had said that very same thing. It came back to North in a flash, and how he had answered:
“I should think those meek droopy white things look more like it.”
For a moment he hesitated. Then he gave her the same answer.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “To pray you must aspire. And they must be blue.”
Dick Carey had said, “Prayer is aspiration, not humility. Besides, they’re not blue.”
Again that sense of well-being which had belonged to the companionship of his friend stole over North. Again the bitterness and pain seemed to fade and melt. The present took on a new interest, a new understanding. He gave himself up to it with a sigh of content as he dropped into the chair by Ruth Seer’s side. The warmth of the June afternoon, the sleepy murmur of the life of the farm, the hum of bees, that wonderful blue, it was all part of it.
“Now light your pipe and be very comfortable,” she said, and left him alone while the peace and beauty soaked in. Left him alone for how long he did not know. When you touch real rest, time ceases.
Presently he re-lit the pipe which he had lighted and left to go out.
“Now,” he said, “tell me. I am ready to be convinced of anything wonderful, just here and now.”