Timothy's courage came upon him like a mantle.
"An' be my wife?" he asked.
"An' be ..." Liva assented, and the words faltered away. But they were not greatly missed.
Timothy looked over the pasture, and over the world. And lo, it was suddenly as if, with these, he were become articulate, and they were all three saying something together.
When they turned, there was the lantern glimmering alight on the trodden turf. And in its little circle of brightness they saw something coloured and soft. It was a gay feather, and Timothy took it curiously in his hand.
"See, it's from one of the circus birds," he said.
"No!" Liva cried. "It's an oriole feather. One of the pasture orioles, Timmie!"
"So it is," he assented, and without knowing why, he was glad that it was so. He folded it away with the violet Liva had gathered that afternoon. After all the strangeness, what he treasured most had belonged to the pasture all the time.
"Liva!" he begged. "Will you wear the picture—my picture—in that locket?"
"Oh," she said, "Timmie, I'm so sorry. The locket's one I bought cheap in the city, and it don't open."