Bert nodded slyly and I opened my chimney cupboard again.
“It’s agin all laws,” said Bert, pointing a thumb toward his wife, “but it ain’t every day we hev a noo neighbour in these parts. Here’s to yer, once more!”
The four of us walked up the road in merry mood, and the older folk left the girl and me on the porch. She held the door open, as if to go in after them, but I pleaded that the lovely June night was young. “And so are we,” I added.
She looked at me a moment, through the dusk, and then came out on the stoop. We moved across the dewy lawn to a bench beneath the sycamore that guarded the house, and sat down. Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Then I said abruptly: “You’ve only come to my house wearing a fairy cap of invisibility, since I moved in–till to-night. Won’t you come to-morrow and walk through the pines? I’ve cleared all the slash out for you, and put planks in the swamp. The thrush won’t sing for me alone.”
“Yes, I’ll come–for the last time,” she said softly.
“Why for the last time?” I cried.
“Because I’m going back to the I’s, or the J’s, on the day after,” she answered.
“Oh, no, no, you mustn’t!” I exclaimed. “You must stay here with the jays. Why, you’re not strong enough, and New York will be horribly hot, and you haven’t seen the phlox in bloom yet round the sundial, and you’ve got to tell me where to plant the perennials, when I sow them, and–and–well, you just mustn’t go.”
She smiled wistfully. “Pronunciation is more important for me than perennials, if not so pleasant,” she said. “I shall think of Twin Fires often, though, in–in the heat.”
“They’ll arrest you if you try to wade in Central Park,” said I.