“God bless them!” he said again, as he thought of the flowers the younger one had offered him, of the kiss the other had imprinted upon his hand; and at last, happier and brighter than he had felt for years, he leaped out of the carriage and ordered a fly and pair to take him to Kilby Farm.
His joyous feelings seemed even on the increase as he neared the place, in spite of the tedious rate at which they moved, and turning at last after the long ride into the Kilby lane, he came in sight of the snug old farm just as the setting sun was gilding the windows.
The Churchwarden was at the door with a smile of welcome as Luke leaped from the fly and warmly grasped his hand.
“I knew you would come,” he said; “but how quick you have been. When did you get my letter?”
“Your letter?”
“Yes; asking you to come. She begged me to write.”
“Then it was inspiration that brought me here. She will welcome me as I wish,” he cried. “I have not had your letter. Take me to her at once, I have wasted too much time as it is.”
“Heaven bless you for coming, Luke,” said the old man, with trembling voice. “It was the mistake of my life that I did not let you wed.”
“Never too late to mend,” said Luke, smiling, and then he saw something in the farmer’s face that turned him ghastly white.
“Sage?” he gasped. “Is she ill?”