The sun was almost down as they turned homeward. It was the same drive, except that the cool of evening was in the air, and a heavier fragrance came from the tangles on either side.
"Forgive me if I'm quiet," she said. "I haven't been to church for so shamefully long, and it so recalls the sweet years spent across there in the convent, that—that I suppose I'm moody."
"I believe I understand almost how you feel. But do you know what I thought when the light was shining through that window on your face?"
"Oh, please, Brent," her voice trembled, "I'm not a bit ready for you to tell me anything you think about me—ever!"
He saw a mist in her eyes, and for awhile kept silent.
"I wonder why it is," he gently asked, "that men stand in such awe of a girl's tears?"
"It isn't the tears, I believe," she tried to laugh, "but intuitively in awe of the mysterious things which cause them. Women must be very silly about it. I know I'm getting to be, for in all my life I've never wanted to cry so many times as this summer. Maybe it's nerves. But sometimes we do feel so helpless that just the sheer weight of sorrow, or the buoyancy of happiness, will sort of press tears from our eyes, in spite of ourselves."
"Which of those hidden forces has caused these?"
"Neither," she looked brightly up at him. "There aren't any tears, you see."
After they had gone another mile in silence, he drily observed: