“Here is the carriage,” she said.
As they came out of the quiet chamber into the open sunlight, part of their stilted reserve vanished. Once in the carriage beside him, she smiled happily. As they rolled into William Street and up the Old Boston Road into the green shaded Bowery, she laughed for the very joy of laughing.
“It is good to feel spring again,” she said, “the cold days are so many.”
As they traveled, an occasional citizen before his doorway, or pleasure seeker upon horseback, greeted them. The distinguished Aaron Burr was here prancing gaily countryward. Old Peter Stuyvesant’s mansion was kept as rich in flowers as when he had been alive to care for it.
“Are not the fields beautiful about here?” he observed, after they had passed the region of the Collect.
“Lovely,” she returned. “I never see them but I think of dancing, they are so soft.”
“Let us get out and walk upon them, anyhow,” he answered. “Henry can wait for us at the turn yonder.”
He was pointing to a far point, where, through a clump of trees, the winding footpath, leading out from here, joined Broadway, now a lane through the woods and fields.
Gaily she acquiesced, and he helped her down. When the servant was out of hearing, he reached for a dandelion, and pressing his lips to it said, “Here is a token.”
“Of what?” she said shyly.