"No cousin Faith to-night. The rain has prevented her from taking this boat, and she is not likely to come later as she comes alone," said Moor, returning from a fruitless drive to meet his expected guest one October evening.
"It always rains when I want anything very much. I seem to have a great deal of bad weather in my life," answered Sylvia, despondingly.
"Never mind the rain; let us make sunshine for ourselves, and forget it as children do."
"I wish I was a child again, they are always happy."
"Let us play at being children, then. Let us sit down upon the rug, parch corn, crack nuts, roast apples, and be merry in spite of wind or weather."
Sylvia's face brightened, for the fancy pleased her, and she wanted something new and pleasant to divert her thoughts from herself. Glancing at her dress, which was unusually matronly in honor of the occasion, she said smiling—
"I don't look much like a child, but I should like to try and feel like one again if I can."
"Let us both look and feel so as much as possible. You like masquerading; go make a little girl of yourself, while I turn boy, and prepare for our merry making."
No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor had preserved much of the boy in spite of his thirty years. His cheerfulness was so infectious, that Sylvia already began to forget her gloom, and hurried away to do her part. Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for scrambles among the rocks, she improvised a pinafore, and braided her long hair a la Morlena Kenwigs, with butterfly bows at the ends. When she went down, she found her husband in garden jacket, collar turned over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble, and jackknife in hand, seated on the rug before a roaring fire, and a semicircle of apples, whittling and whistling like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful commendations, and Moor began his part by saying—
"Isn't this jolly? Now come and cuddle down here beside me, and see which will keep it up the longest."