He tied the horse, and together they entered the field by the great open place where the fence had not yet been replaced. The turf was still soft and yielding, in spite of all the treading feet. The pasture was girdled by trees—locusts and box-alders outlined dimly upon the sky, nest-places for orioles; and here and there a great oak or a cottonwood made a mysterious figure on the stars. One would have said that underfoot would certainly be violets. A far light pricked out an answer to their lantern, and a nearer firefly joined the signalling.
"I keep thinkin' the way it looked here this afternoon," said Liva once.
"That's funny, so do I," he cried.
Under the cottonwood on the slope, its leaves stirring like little banners, Timothy flashed his light, first on tufted grass, then on red-tasselled sorrel, then—lying there as simply as if it belonged there—on Liva's silver locket. She caught it from him with a little cry.
"Oh," she said, "I'm so glad. Oh, thank you ever so much, Timmie."
He faced her for a moment.
"Why are you so almighty glad?" he burst out.
"Why, it's the first locket I ever had!" she said in surprise. "So of course I'm glad. Oh, Timmie—thank you!"
"You're welcome, I'm sure," he returned stiffly.
She gave a little skipping step beside him.