"You mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now."
"Yes, that's what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find the right words."
"Perhaps," he said. "Things never look just the same tomorrow, but they may look—well, nicer—or—I can't always find the right word. Suppose we walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." It was so agreed.
They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and as Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions to the comfort of a sick woman in the village. They crossed the garden and were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke. "We just did it. Billy will have to go." They laughed merrily at their escape.
"Just think, John, how long it is since you came. It seems years. Oh, you were a queer boy! I just hated you."
"I do suppose, Leila, I must have looked odd with that funny cap and the cane—"
"And the way you looked when I told you about swinging on the gate. I hadn't done that for—oh, two years. What did you think of me?"
"I thought you were very rude, and then—oh, Leila! when you came up out of the drift—" He hesitated.
"Oh, go on; I don't mind—not now."
"I thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow."