“Still,” she said, “I’d rather.”
So they got into a carriage and drove off along that same road; but it was all very different now. The sun had gone down, leaving a soft, dark violet sky. The bright colors were dimmed. It was, she thought, a subdued and rather melancholy world. The adventure was over.
Mr. Powers remarked again how glad he was that everything had come out all right; but, as Miss Smith said nothing in response to this, he was discouraged and fell silent for a time.
“I never thought you’d come back there,” he said at last. “I thought—perhaps you had overheard what my aunt said, and—”
“Yes, I did overhear it,” said Miss Smith, in a calm and reasonable tone; “but, after all, she knew nothing about me. Why should she?”
“Anybody would know that you were—” he began, and stopped.
Miss Smith waited in vain to hear what she was. Turning a corner, they entered a road where the trees arched overhead and the low white walls gleamed ghostlike. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, and the little whistling frogs had set up their music. The lights of Mrs. Mount’s cottage were visible at the end of the road.
A strange pain seized Miss Smith. The lights of that little house, shining out steadily into the tranquil dusk, put her in mind of another cottage—her home, so long ago—and of the mother and father who had lived in it. She thought of the careless laughter, the hope, the courage, the great love, that had made their whole life a delightful adventure. Foolish? Romantic? Unpractical?
“They were the wisest, most wonderful people who ever lived,” she said to herself, with a stifled sob; “and the bravest. They weren’t afraid of life, like me![Pg 245]”
“I wonder what happened to your trunk!” said Mr. Powers.