The smile on her face was wonderful now; he felt curiously abashed by it, like one who has inadvertently jested in a holy place.
“Forgive me, dearest,” he murmured.
“If you would like—if it is not too soon—my birthday is next Saturday. Mother used to make me a little party on my birthday, so I thought—it seemed to me—and the roses are all in bloom.”
There was only one way to thank her for this halting little speech: he took her in his arms and whispered words which no one, not even the crickets in the hedge could hear, if crickets ever were listeners, and not the sole chorus on their tiny stage of life.