"Yes."
"I knew it—you're so sweet nobody could help loving you. Did he die?"
"Yes."
"It was that way with Mr. Thorpe," mused Araminta, reminiscently.
"They loved each other and were going to be married, but she died. He
said, though, that death didn't make any difference with loving.
There's Ralph, now."
"Little witch," said the boy, fondly, as she met him at the door; "did you think I could wait a whole five minutes?"
They sat in the parlour for half an hour or more, and during this time it was not necessary for their hostess to say a single word. They were quite unaware that they were not properly conducting a three-sided conversation, and Miss Evelina made no effort to enlighten them. Youth and laughter and love had not been in her house before for a quarter of a century.
"Come again," she begged, when they started home. Joy incarnate was a welcome guest—it did not mock her now.
Half-way down the path, Ralph turned back to the veiled woman who stood wistfully in the doorway. Araminta was swinging, in childish fashion, upon the gate. Ralph took Miss Evelina's hand in his.
"I wish I could say all I feel," he began, awkwardly, "but I can't.
With all my heart, I wish I could give some of my happiness to you!"
"I am content—since I have forgiven."