“Victorias?”
“Yes.”
“You know, with a low seat behind and a high seat for the driver. You have a green cushion for your feet. You would look so handsome in one, Glenn. You would sit very erect and proud, with your hands on a cane. You would have white hair then.”
“We would be old?” he asked in some dismay.
“No, no,” said Lavinia, trying to reconcile her dreams, “not old exactly. But I dote on white hair. It’s so distinguished for a lawyer with a country home. Of course we’ll have to get old sometime.”
“We’ll grow old together, dear.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “and think of the long years of happiness!”
They stood and gazed, looking down the long vista of years that stretched before them as smooth and peaceful as the white road to Mingo.
A subtile change was passing over the face of the road; shadows were stealing toward it, and it was growing gray. The trees that still were green were darkening to a deeper green, but the colors of those that had changed flamed all the brighter. The sun shone more golden on the shocks of corn, the sky was glowing pink in the west, the water-works pond was glistening as the sun’s shafts struck it more obliquely. A fine powder hung in the peaceful air.
“How beautiful the fall is!” said Lavinia.