Slowly, as she spoke, he went toward the hedge, guided by her voice. "So you found it then," he said slowly, gazing at the beautiful woman face that was framed in the green of the leaves and branches.
And at his words, the woman's heart beat quicker—so he had tried to find it—but aloud she only said: "Of course."
To which he returned smilingly: "But it is quite grown over now, isn't it? You could scarcely come through there now as you used to do—could you?"
The woman laughed again. "I could if I were a man"—she challenged.
A moment later he stood beside her; a little breathless, with his clothing disarranged, and a scratch or two on his face and hands.
"Do you know"—she said when they had shaken hands quite properly as grown up people must do—"do you know that I was dreadfully afraid to meet you? When they told me that you were here I wanted to go away again. I was afraid that you would be so different. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he said, gravely, "I understand." But he did not tell her, then, how fully he understood.
She went on: "But when I looked through the hedge and saw you with your hat off, watching the birds, I knew you were the same little boy—and—well—I could not resist giving the old call."
And, all at once, the man knew why he had risen early that morning and why he had gone into the garden.
After that, they spent many days together in the scenes of their childhood; living over again, so far as man and woman may, their Yesterdays. And so cane, at last, the day that was forever after, to them, the day of all their days.