And as I think how you have worked for ’em, and are still a-workin’, my heart is as full of the thought of you, little Adrian, as the voyalets you loved are filled with their strong, onseen perfume.
And as I set askin’ these questions, the twilight shades are fallin’, the evenin’ star shines bright above the golden west.
And wuz that the odor of English voyalets that swep’ by the open winder on the night breeze? There’s a bed of ’em down in the garden. Did the soft breeze come from that way—or further off?
But I stop and lean out of the winder and say—
“Good-night, little Adrian—good-night, little Pardner—till mornin’.”
And wuz that a soft, fur-off echo, or wuz it my own thoughts that repeated—“Till mornin’”?
FINIS.