He looked at her in silence for a few moments; a sensitive quiver passed over his face and his eyes filled.
“It is true,” he said at last, slowly. “It is true—that strange, wonderful thing you have said there. It is given to every man to love one woman and to be loved by her. Oh, marvellous! I can no longer believe that once I saw men who had not known the feeling of gratitude.”
She pressed his arm kindly, but did not try to speak.
Mr. Andrews’ cart wheels sounded near by. Rosamond withdrew her hand then, and smilingly reminded him:
“You’ll have to run to catch him. His nag always canters down hill. It has cast-iron knees.”
“Adieu. Till to-night.” He ran through the slanting orchard toward the wall, calling back to her twice:
“To-night,” and, “later, I come.”
She watched him disappear among the trees, and presently heard the cart stop, then go on again.
The last russet gold of sunset and the gray and purple of oncoming twilight mingled over the gleaming river. One star shone high above Villa Rose.
“It is night now,” she thought, as she looked at the star. “My Wonderful Day is ended. And he never came to say, ‘Good-morning, Rosamond!’”