She pressed her hand to her bosom, watching him in a startled fashion, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She took a few quick, short steps toward the garden, still watching him over her shoulder.
“You mustn't worry,” he said, not lifting his bent head, “I know you're sorry. I'll be all right in a minute.”
She gave a hurried glance from right to left and from left to right, like one in terror seeking a way of escape; she gathered her skirts in her hand, as if to run into the garden; but suddenly she turned and ran to him—ran to him swiftly, with her great love shining from her eyes. She sank upon her knees beside him. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him on the forehead.
“Oh, my dear, don't you see?” she whispered, “don't you see—don't you see?”
When they heard the judge calling from the orchard, they went back through the garden toward the house. It was dark; the whitest asters were but gray splotches. There was no one in the orchard; Briscoe had gone indoors. “Did you know you are to drive me into town in the phaeton for the fireworks?” she asked.
“Fireworks?”
“Yes; the Great Harkless has come home.”
Even in the darkness he could see the look the vision had given him when the barouche turned into the Square. She smiled upon him and said, “All afternoon I was wishing I could have been your mother.”
He clasped her hand more tightly. “This wonderful world!” he cried. “Yesterday I had a doctor—a doctor to cure me of love-sickness!”
They went on a little way. “We must hurry,” she said. “I am sure they have been waiting for us.” This was true; they had.