Gradually, however, the quietness of all about Andy seemed to fit in with his misty memories of Elizabeth. Tenderness. Sweetness. Repose. Why—those meant Elizabeth—they were but other names for her.
Words gathered in his mind, singing of themselves about her sweetness. The nightingale in a little wood half a mile away was no more singing to his mate than Andy there, beneath the churchyard hedge.
Only, the nightingale’s song was lovely for every one, and Andy’s could never be lovely for any one but Elizabeth.
He pictured them, hand in hand, there in the garden together, watching the village as it went to sleep.
“Let us watch the quiet village
Till each little casement glows
For there’s something in the sight, Love,
That is like a heart’s repose.
Let us watch the starlight glimmer
Through the windless evening air,