But Lucy did not seem in any hurry. She hovered about in an odd, restless kind of way, and finally came behind Aunt Hepsy's chair, and folded her hands on her shoulder.
"What is it, child?" said Aunt Hepsy wonderingly. "Summat you have to tell me, I reckon. Anything in Tom's letter ye haven't told me?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," and Lucy's voice fell very low now. "I want to tell you—I have promised to be Mr. Goldthwaite's wife."
"Bless me, Lucy, 'tain't true?" cried Aunt Hepsy, starting up; and seeing in Lucy's downcast face confirmation of her words, she sank back to her chair, and for the first and only time in her life Aunt Hepsy went off into hysterics.
In the tender gloaming of an August evening Tom and Lucy Hurst stood together within the porch at Thankful Rest. They had been at Pendlepoint visiting old friends, and, after walking slowly home, lingered here talking of old times, and loath to leave the soft beauty of the summer night. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow was Tom Hurst now, towering a head above his sister, who stood very close to him, her head leaning against his shoulder.
"Do you remember what a pair of miserable little creatures stood just here five years ago, Lucy?" he said half laughingly, half earnestly.
"Yes," said Lucy softly. "What a difference between then and now."
There was a moment's silence. Tom's eyes watched the stars peeping out one by one in the opal sky, his heart full of the happiness of the present and all the hope and promise of the future.
Presently Aunt Hepsy, ever watchful for Lucy now, called to them to come in, for the dews were falling.
"Tom, has not God cast our lines in pleasant places, and given us a goodly heritage?" said Lucy softly as they turned to obey the summons.