"Look, they are all there which greeted me on Timéa's fête-day year after year—these are my birthday guests. There are nine of them. Will you be the tenth? Then all whom I have invited will have assembled."
The major, in speechless delight, pressed the lovely hand to his lips. "My poor roses—"
Timéa did not refuse him that privilege—possibly she would have allowed even more; but the widow's cap stood in the way, and Timéa felt it.
"Do you want me to exchange this cap for another?"
"From that day I shall begin to live again."
"Let us set apart for it my own fête-day, which every one knows."
"Oh, but that is so far off."
"Don't be alarmed, there is a St. Susanna in the summer; we will keep her day."
"But that is distant too."
"It is not an eternity to wait till then. Have you not learned patience? Remember, I want time to get used to happiness—it does not come all at once; and we can see each other every day till then—at first for a minute, and then for two, and then forever. Is it agreed?"