“There was frost last night,” she laughed, “and the cool wind makes my face burn.”
“I know just how it feels,” said he, looking again toward the window with pathetic wistfulness, the hunger of old longings in his eyes.
“It will not be long now until you are free,” she said in low voice of sympathy.
He was still looking at the brown branches of the bare elm, now palely touched with the cloud-filtered autumn sun.
“I know where there’s lots of it,” said he, as if to himself, “out in the hills. It loves to ramble over scrub-oak in the open places where there’s plenty of sun. I used to pick armloads of it the last year I went to school and carry it to the teacher. She liked to decorate the room with it.”
He turned to her with apologetic appeal, as if to excuse himself for having wandered away from her in his thoughts.
“I put it over the mantel,” she nodded; “it lasts all winter.”
“The wahoo’s red now, too,” said he. “Do you care for it?” 223
“It doesn’t last as long as bitter-sweet,” said she.
“Bitter-sweet,” said he reflectively, looking down into the shadows which hung to the flagstones of the floor. Then he raised his eyes to hers and surprised them brimming with tears, for her heart was aching for him in a reflection of his own lonely pain.