"Yours were interesting. Were you hurt because—"
It happened so long ago that she smiled as she looked up at him.
"I have never told you the reason. I thought Morris Kemlo had a prior claim."
"What right had you to think that?"
"From what I heard—and saw."
"I am ignorant of what you could hear or see. Morris was my twin-brother; he was my blessing; he is my blessing."
"Is not my reason sufficient?"
"Oh, yes; it doesn't matter. But see that sumach. I have not seen anything so pretty this summer; mother must have them. You wouldn't think it, but she is very fond of wild flowers."
She stepped aside to pluck the sumach and sprays of goldenrod; they were growing beside a stone wall, and she crossed the road to them. He stood watching her. She was as unconscious as the goldenrod herself.
What had her mother meant? Was it all a mistake? Had his wretched days and wakeful nights been for nothing? Was there nothing for him to be grieved about? He knew now how much he loved her—and she? He was not a part of her life, at all. Would he dare speak the words he had planned to speak?