"Over-ripe!" she said bitterly, "Oh—they are over-ripe!"
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"No," she answered, "no, there's—this!" and she held up her little crutch stick.
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Oh!—isn't—that enough?" Bellew rose. "Where are you going—What are you going to do?" she demanded.
"Wait!" said he, smiling down at her perplexity, and so he turned, and crossed to a certain corner of the orchard. When he came back he held out a great, glowing peach towards her.
"You were quite right," he nodded, "it was so ripe that it fell at a touch."
But, as he spoke, she drew him down beside her in the shadow:
"Hush!" she whispered, "Listen!"
Now as they sat there, very silent,—faint and far-away upon the still night air, they heard a sound; a silvery, rhythmic sound, it was,—like the musical clash of fairy cymbals which drew rapidly nearer, and nearer; and Bellew felt that Miss Priscilla's hand was trembling upon his arm as she leaned forward, listening with a smile upon her parted lips, and a light in her eyes that was ineffably tender.