But Tessa could not listen. She was feeling the peace that rested over the woods, the fields; that was enwrapping Old Place, and further down the dim road the low-eaved homestead that must thenceforth be home to her. There could be no more air-castles; her future was decided. She had turned the leaf and discovered a name that hitherto had meant so little: Felix Harrison. Not Ralph Towne; a year ago to-night it was English violets and Ralph Towne. The peace that brooded over all might be hers, if only she would be content.
At this moment,—while she was trying to be content, trying to believe that she could interpret the peace of the shining stars, and while she was hearing the sound of her companion’s words, a solemn, even tone that rolled on in unison with her thoughts,—two people far away were thinking of her; thinking of her, but not wishing and not daring to speak her name.
“I can not understand, Ralph. I was sure that we would bring Naughty Nan away with us.”
“Truly, mother, I would have pleased you, if I could.”
“You are too serious for her; with all her mischievous advances,—like a white kitten provokingly putting out its paw,—she was more than half afraid of you.”
“It does not hurt her to be afraid.”
“She is most bewitching.”
“Now, mother! But it is too late; she will understand by my parting words that I do not expect to see her soon again. In my mind is a memory that has kept me from loving that delicious Naughty Nan.”
“Is the memory a fancy?”
“No; it is too real for my ease of mind. If I were a poet, which I am not, I should think that her spirit haunted me.”