The train started, it left New York behind, it ran into the suburbs, then into the country, and at last the hills began to mount beside the track, and a cooler, fresher air to come in through the windows. Still her eyes smiled into mine, but she said little, save now and then to lean forward and whisper, “Is it true, John, is it true?”
So we came to Bentford station, in the early dusk of evening, and the air was good as we alighted, and the silence. Suddenly Buster appeared, undulating with joyous yelps along the platform, and sprang at Stella’s face. He almost ignored me.
Peter was waiting with the buggy. We sat him between us and drove home.
“Home–your home, our home,” I whispered, pressing her hand behind Peter’s back.
“Sold a lot o’ peas and things,” said Peter. “I got ’em all down in the book. Gee, I drove over ’most every day, an’ I’m goin’ to be on the ball team in the village, an’ I wanter join the Boy Scouts, but ma won’t let me ’less you say it’s all right, an’ ain’t it?”
“We’ll think it over, Peter,” said I.
Stella was bouncing up and down on the seat with excitement as the buggy rattled over the bridge. Lamplight was streaming from Twin Fires. On the kitchen porch stood Mrs. Pillig, dressed in her best, and Mrs. Bert and Bert. As we climbed from the buggy, Bert raised his hand, and a shower of rice descended upon us. Stella ran up the path, and Mrs. Bert’s ample arms closed about her. Both women were half laughing, half crying, when I got there with the grips.
“Ain’t that jest like the sex?” said Bert, with a jerk of his thumb–“so durn glad they gotter cry about it!”
“You shet up,” said Mrs. Bert. “For all you know, I’m pityin’ the poor child!”
Mrs. Pillig had an ample dinner ready for us, with vegetables and salad fresh from the garden, and, as a crowning glory, a magnificent lemon pie.