He took a deep breath. "Not when I'm as thankful as this," he says.
"And me," she says. "And me."
I looked around the little garden of the Henslows' cottage, with the moon behaving as if everything was going as smooth as glass—don't you always notice that about the moon? What grand manners it's got? It never lets on that anything is the matter.
He threw his arm across her shoulder in that gesture of comradeship that is most the sweetest thing they do.
They got up and came over to me quick.
"We can't thank you—" she says.
"Shucks," I says. "I been wishing I had something to give you. I couldn't think of anything but vegetables. Now mebbe I've give you something after all—providing you don't go and forget it the very next time," I says, wanting to scold them again.
They walked to the gate with me. The night was black and pale gold, like a great soft drowsy bee.
"You know," I says, when I left them, "peace that we talk so much about—that isn't going to come just by governments getting it. If people like you and me can't keep it—and be it—what hope is there for the nations? We are 'em!"
I'd never thought of it before. I went home saying it over. When I'd put my pie-plant down cellar I went in my dark little parlor and sat down by the window and rocked. I could see their light for a little while. Then it went out. The cottage lay in that hush of peace of a hot summer night. I could feel the peacefulness of the village.