He stood silently looking down at her a moment.
“Your eyes look just as they did when you were a little child,” he said. He lifted her hand and pressed his warm young lips to it.
CHAPTER XXII
He awoke the next morning with a glow in his heart which should not be new to youth, but was new to him. He remembered feeling something rather like it years before when he had been a little boy and had wakened on the morning of his birthday and found his mother kissing him and his bed strewn with gifts.
He went downstairs and, strolling on to the porch, saw Sheba in the garden. As he went to join her, he found himself in the midst of familiar paths and growths.
“Why,” he exclaimed, stopping before her, “it is the old garden!”
“Yes,” Sheba answered; “Uncle Tom made it like this because he loved the other one. You and I have played in the same garden. Good-morning,” laughing.
“Good-morning,” he said. “It is a good-morning. I—somehow I have been thinking that when I woke I felt as I used to do when I was a child and woke on my birthday.”