"Oh, I trust not, I trust not!" said Miss Vesta, hurriedly, and she made haste to change the subject. She as well as her sister found the young doctor's expressions overstrong at times, yet she loved the lad.
"The roses are at their sweetest now," she said, leading the conversation gently away from the too passionate white phlox, on which the moth was still waving its wings drowsily. "This black damask is considered very fine, but I love the old-fashioned June roses best."
"'She loves you, noble roses, I know!'" said Geoffrey, who certainly was not himself to-night. "This one is exactly like you, Miss Vesta. Look at it; just the colour of ivory with a little sunset mixed in. Now you know what you look like."
"Oh, hush, my dear young friend!" said Miss Vesta. "You must not—really, you know—talk in this way. But—it is curious that you should have noticed that particular rose; it—it is the kind I used to wear when I was young."
She looked up at the lamp in the window. Geoffrey's eyes followed hers.
Involuntarily he laid his hand on hers. "Dear Miss Vesta!" he said, and
his strong, hearty voice could be very gentle. "Miss Blyth told me.
Does it still hurt, dear lady?"
Miss Vesta's breath fluttered for a moment, but it was only a moment. Her soft white fingers, cool as rose-leaves, returned the pressure of his affectionately. "No, my—my dear," she said. "It does not hurt—now. There is no pain now, only memory; blessed, blessed memory. He—there is something—you remind me of him a little, Doctor Geoffrey."
They stood silent, the young man and the old woman, hand in hand in the soft evening. The splendour in the west died out, and soft clouds of gray and purple brooded like wings over the sea. The water deepened from gold to glimmering gray, from gray to deep brown and blue. In one spot a faint glimmer trembled on the waves; the light from Miss Vesta's lamp. The little lady gazed at it long, then looked up into the strong young face above her.
"He was—your age!" she said, hurrying the words out in a low murmur, hardly louder than the night breeze in the tall lilac-trees. "He was bright and strong and gay like you; his sun went down while it was yet day. The Lord took him into his holy keeping. I wish—I wish you all the joy I should have tried to give him, Doctor Geoffrey. I wish your life fortunate and brave, and your love happy; more than all, your love happy."
She pressed his hand, and went quietly away; came back for a moment to pat his arm and say she trusted she had not distressed him, and beg him not to stay out too long in the night air; then went into the house, closing the door softly after her.
Left alone, Geoffrey Strong fell to his pacing again, up and down the neat gravel paths with their tall box hedges. His face was very tender; looking at it, one might know he had been a loving son to his mother. But presently he frowned over his cigar, and then laughed, and went and shook the unoffending moth (it was a rare one, if he had been thinking of that kind of thing) off the phlox.