With both hands clasping his arm, her sweet face upturned to his in the dusk, and with the rich notes in her voice that were reminiscent of little Patience, she quoted:
"'Friendship—that select and sacred relationship that is a kind of absolute and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common so much is this purer; and nothing is so much divine.'"
John stopped and taking Lydia's face in both his hands, he exclaimed huskily. "Oh, my dear, this is my real welcome home! Oh, Lydia, Lydia, if you were ten years older and I were ten years younger—"
Lydia laughed. "Then we'd travel—to all the happy places of the world. We must turn back. Daddy'll be waiting."
Levine turned obediently, saying as he did so, "Just one thing more, then the year's absence will be spanned. How does the Great Search go on? Do you ever have bad dreams at night, now?"
"Sometimes," replied Lydia. "Just the other night I woke up with the old fear and then—it was very curious—I heard the lap-lapping of the lake, and the little murmur of the wind in the pine and the frogs cheeping and the steady chirp of the crickets, and, Mr. Levine, the queerest sense of comfort came to me. I can't put it into words. Somehow it was as if Something behind all those little voices spoke to me and told me things were—were right."
"Lydia," said Levine, quickly, "you've struck the right trail. I'll
follow it with you. What a long way you've come alone, little girl.
Give me your hand, dear. I like to feel it on my arm. Oh, Lydia!
Lydia!"
"What are you two mooning about," said Amos' voice, as he loomed on them through the dusk.
"Enterprises of great pith and moment," replied Levine. "Got any tobacco with you, Amos?"
"No! We'd better go in the house, anyhow. The mosquitoes will eat us up. Lydia, Margery's looking for you."