They kissed, while a summer wind sang its small song, its intimate and idle song among the grasses at their feet.
"Hark to the little wind," said Edward. "Of what does it remind you?"
"Only of summer," she whispered.
"Don't you think it is like a child singing to herself while she plays alone with her toys?"
"What funny fancies you have, Edward."
A sudden comprehension of what might be seized him in a rapture, and he clasped his Elizabeth closer.
"Can you not tell me of what I am thinking?" he whispered.
She raised her eyes slowly, divined the thought that was beating from his heart into hers, blushed as red as her own red heart which now beat as fast as his, buried her face for a moment in his breast, then looked up quickly and for answer gave him her lips.
The moths were dancing over the petunias, when the lovers came home to the farm.
"But you'll never have such another day," said old James. "And if you've missed your tea, you can make up for it with supper. But as for me, I'm going to bed."