They opened the kitchen door and stepped in. Pa Norton was sitting in his stocking feet, reading the evening paper. Ma was putting away the day's baking. She paused with a loaf of bread in her hand as the two came in and Pa looked over his glasses.
"Mother and Dad," said Billy, uncertainly, "I—I've brought Lydia home to you! Look at her, Dad! Isn't she a peach!"
Lydia stood with her back against the door, cheeks scarlet, golden head held high, but her lips quivering.
Ma dropped her loaf of bread. "Oh, Lydia," she cried, "I thought that numskull of a Billy never would see daylight! I've prayed for this for years. Come straight over here to your mother, love."
But Pa Norton had dropped his paper when Ma dropped her bread and had not paused for comments. He made three strides to Lydia, and gave her a great hug and a kiss. Then he said, "First time I saw you carrying that milk for Billy's books, I said, there's the wife Billy ought to have. Ma, wasn't she the dearest—"
But Ma shoved him aside contemptuously. "Get over and talk to Billy.
This is a woman's affair. Who cares about reminiscences now. Oh,
Billy, do you remember I used to worry because she didn't keep the back
of her neck clean!"
"Who's reminiscencing now?" asked Pa belligerently.
Everybody laughed. Then Pa sighed. "Well, I feel almost reconciled now to Bill's giving up farming. When're you going to be married?"
Lydia blushed. "Oh, not for a long time. Now, let's go and tell my people, Billy."
Out in the night again! Curious how long the short walk to the cottage could be made! Curious how near the stars were—heaven just over the road where the lovers strolled. Not strange that such ecstasy cannot last forever. The human mind could not bear that heaven-born rapture too long.