"But she would not," laughed the young man. "She said that old folks might lean, but she could run as well as any man!"
"So she ran through the garden, and I after!" cried the old man, crushing the roses till they filled the porch with sweetness. "She hid behind the old elm and let me call and call. And I had to find her in the moonshadows. You know she grew afraid and cried out when I caught her? And yet she knew I would. But women are so. Her mother knew I was with her, so she let us stay till it was late. Rachel's mother was kind to me, you know?"
"Yes," said the young man. "But she knew that Rachel——"
"Ah!" said the old man quickly, "it seems they all knew! All but Rachel and me! Now that is so strange. For we should have known it first. But Rachel laughed so when I tried to tell her, she said—what was it she said?"
"That you were too young to know how you would think of it later," said the youth.
"And I said, 'I'm old enough to know I love you, Rachel, now and for ever!'" said the old man softly, clasping his hands together so that the roses dropped to the ground. "And then she did not laugh at all, but only held her head down so I could not see her eyes, and would not speak."
"It was so still," said the youth. "There was no breeze, and everything in the garden listened, listened, for what she would say."
"But nothing in the garden could hear," said the old man eagerly, "because she only whispered!"
"Was it then that her mother called?" asked the youth.
"Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But we did not come, for Rachel was afraid to go. She thought her mother would not like to have her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her that she wanted to go. So we sat like silly children in the dark. You see, I was afraid, too. Her father and mother were old, and old people cannot know how we feel when love first comes to us—and yet they loved, once!"