Are there days that the Lord of all the earth has created for love? Some days seem made especially for sorrow. But this had such an exquisite serenity brooding in the air. It was not late enough to have any regrets for the passing of summer, and oh, what a summer it had been!
"Do you really want to go up to the fair?" Herman Andersen had asked, when they reached the corner.
"Why,—" Hanny hesitated,—"we have seen it a good many times," and she gave her soft, rippling laugh.
"Let us go over to Tompkin's Square." He had something to say to her that would be easier said in those deserted walks. You could always find them except on Saturday or Sunday.
"Very well," with her graceful assent.
The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, had time to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if they said: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy. Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred. The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet little winrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he liked to hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a little girl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything could change so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' when Stephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. A cabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said, "We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go before everything has faded."
"Yes," she made answer.
"See here, we might get this cab and go up now"—looking up with eager inquiry.
Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-hand premeditated happenings; but other people had them even then.
She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisite sweetness.