She had not moved. She was as still as the dead oak that towered above them. The sunset struck upon her bowed head and upon the quiet bosom, where her hands were clasped.
"I will wait," she answered.
He came nearer and kissed the hands upon her breast. His face was flushed and his lips were hot.
"Thank you," he said simply as he drew back.
In a moment he stooped to pick up the scattered goldenrod, heaping it into her arms. "This is enough to fill the house," he protested. "You can't want so much."
He had regained his rational tone, and she responded to it with a smile.
"I never know when I'm satisfied," she said. "It is my weakness. As a child I always ate candy until it made me ill."
They crossed the field, the long plumes brushing against them and powdering them with a feathery gold dust. At the fence she gave him the bunch and lightly swung herself over the sunken rails. It did not occur to him to assist her; she had always been as good as he at vaulting bars. Now her long skirts retarded her, and she laughed as she came quickly to the ground on the opposite side.
"One of the many disadvantages of my sex," she said. "The best prisons men ever invented are women's skirts. Our wings are clipped while we wear them."
"It is hard," he returned as he recalled her school-*girl feats. "You were such a mighty jumper."