“Take my breast-strap,” said Mark.
“No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the saddle on my shoulder.”
Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was grave and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yet descended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusk sheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha's eyes.
Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed in silence up the hill, until they struck the Wilmington road, below Hallowell's. Here Gilbert felt that it was best to leave them.
“Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally, as they checked their horses. “Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this evening?”
“As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered; “but I will say three more,—Good-night, Gilbert!”
“Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his hand burned long upon her fingers.
He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love and gratitude, proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate. His mother sat in the lonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried to read, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table was but half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside the coals.
Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hide the radiant happiness that shone from his eyes and sat upon his lips.
“You've not had supper?” Mary Potter asked.