“First your little farm,” she said soberly. “Tomatoes and potatoes and all the rest. A shelter for old Boss, everything that will go to make this a home for you and Mary and your mother.”
“And you,” Mark’s voice was low.
“No. Not for me, Mark. For you this is life. I understand that. I admire you for it. To have a home, and a small farm, to add to that year after year, to change the log cabin for a fine home, to have cattle and sheep and broad pasture and—” she hesitated, then went on, “and children, boys and girls, happy in their home. All this is your life and will be years on end. But for me, it is only—what should I say—an episode, one adventure among many, a grand and glorious experience.”
“Yes,” Mark said, and there was kindness in his voice. “Yes, I suppose that is it. Awfully good of you to share the hardest year with us.”
“What do you mean hardest?” Florence demanded. “It’s been glorious. And we are succeeding so well. Already the tomatoes are up to my shoulders. What a crop they will be!”
“Yes,” Mark’s voice was husky. “We’ve been lucky.”
For a time there was silence. Then Mark spoke again. “There was a time, and not so long ago, when I thought to myself, ‘Life’s stream must grow darker and deeper as we go along.’ But now—well—” he did not finish.
“Now,” Florence laughed from sheer joy of living. “Now you must know that it grows lighter and brighter.”
“Lighter and brighter,” Mark laughed softly. “Those are fine words, mighty fine.”
“They’re grand words,” the girl cried. “True words, too. It—why, life is like a summer morning! Only day before yesterday I went out to find old Boss before dawn. It was more than half dark. Clouds along the horizon were all black. They looked ominous, threatening. Soon, some power behind them began to set them on fire. Redder and redder they shone, then they began to fade. Salmon colored, deep pink, pale pink, they faded and faded until like a ghost’s winding sheet they vanished. Lighter and brighter. Oh, Mark! how grand and beautiful life can be!” Leaping to her feet she did a wild dance, learned in some gypsy camp with her good friend, Petite Jeanne; then, dropping to her place beside the boy, she looked away into the night. For her, darkness held no terror, for well she knew there should be a brighter dawn.