“I understand nothing at all!” said Bayard breathlessly. “You were not here last summer, when I was candidating in the First Church.”
“That, I tell you, was on account of the hornets and the mouse; the mouse clinched it; he waked her walking up her sleeve one morning. So we went to Campo Bello the year after. But we always come to Windover.”
“For instance, how many seasons constitute ‘always’?”
“Three. This will be four. Father likes it above everything. So did mother before the mouse epoch. She got to feeling hornets in her shoes whenever she put them on. I wonder father never told you we always come to Windover.”
“The Professor had other things in his mind when he talked to me,—second probation, and the dangers of modern German exegesis.”
“Yes, I know. Dear papa! Windover isn’t a doctrine.”
“I wonder you never told me you always came to Windover.”
“Oh, I left that to Father,” replied the young lady demurely. “I did come near it, though, once. Do you remember that evening”—
“Yes,” he interrupted; “I remember that evening.”