"No, no. We'll bury her in the flower garden the day before. Just one year—please!"
"Oh, Unity, when you say 'please'!"
"This is August. I'll marry you twelve little months from now—please!"
"A thousand things may happen—"
"They won't—they won't. Don't you love Unity Dandridge? Then let her live a little longer!"
"Kiss me—"
Unity did as she was bid. The sunlight left the hollow, but stayed bright upon the hills beyond. It was August, but in a treetop somewhere a solitary bird was singing. Nearer the earth the crickets and cicadas began their evening concert, a shrill drumming in the warm, still air. There was a scent of dry grass, a feeling of summer at its full. Dewy freshness, tender green, mist of bloom, and a thousand songs were far away, and yet upon the bench beneath the catalpa there was spring.
"The sun is setting," said Unity at last. "Let us go speak to Uncle Dick."
"He'll be glad, I think. May I stay to supper? I want to hear Unity Dandridge sing afterwards."
"Yes, Uncle Dick will be glad—he and Uncle Edward will be very glad. I don't believe that Unity Dandridge will want to sing to-night. She'll be thinking of that grave in the flower garden."