"He has forgotten it all, long ago," she said to herself; "men never remember such things. Well, he sha'n't think I remember!"
But how often Gifford remembered!
One afternoon he walked over to the stone bench, and sat down on the very same sunken step from which he had looked up into Lois's face that June evening. He saw a bunch of violets growing just where her foot must have rested, and what was more natural—for Gifford was still young—than that pencil and note-book should appear, and, with a long-drawn sigh, he should write hastily,—
O Violet,
Dost thou forget?
and then stop, perhaps to sharpen his pencil, and, if the truth be told, to cast about for a rhyme.
Alas, that love and poetry should be checked by anything so commonplace as syllables! Let—wet—yet,—one can fit in the sense easily when the proper rhyme has been decided upon; and who knows but that Gifford, lying there in the grass, with the old lichen-covered step for a desk, might have written a sonnet or a madrigal which would have given him his heart's desire before the moon rose! But an interruption came.
The rector and Mr. Denner were coming back from fishing, along the road on the other side of the hedge, and Dr. Howe turned in here to follow the garden path home, instead of taking the longer way. Both pushed through a gap in the hedge, and discovered Gifford lying in the grass by the stone bench.
"Hello!" said the rector. "Working up a case, young man?"
Perhaps Gifford was not altogether displeased to be interrupted; the song we might have sung is always sweetest. At all events, he very good-naturedly put his note-book back in his pocket, and rolling over on his stomach, his elbows crushing down the soft grass and his fists under his chin, began to talk to the two elder men.
"Had good luck?"