The hall door stood open, as if to welcome him. The roses and the laurels were in bloom; the grass, ripe for the scythe, was waving in the meadow; and, by glimpses between the elm and maple boughs, the lake, crisped in the June wind, was sparkling with the sunlight.
Morton dismounted; his foot was on the porch; but he had no time for thought; for a step sounded in the hall, and Edith met him on the threshold.
* * * * *
That evening, at sunset, Miss Leslie and Morton stood on the brink of the lake, at the foot of the garden. It was the spot which had been most sweet and most bitter in the latter's recollections.
"Do you remember, Edith, when we last stood here?"
"How could I ever forget?"
"The years that have passed since are like a nightmare. I could believe them so, but that I feel their marks."
"And I, as well; we were boy and girl then."
"At least, I was a boy; and, do you know, I find you different from what I had pictured you."
"Should I be sorry for it, or glad?"