Part 33

“I knew the day you cried. I didn't know myself until then, but it all came in a minute.”

“I was afraid you were going to stay away a whole week.”

“I couldn't, darling--I just had to come.”

“Did you see everybody you wanted to see?”

“I couldn't see anything but your face, Ruth, with the tears on it. I've got to go back to-morrow and have another try at the oculist.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, in acute disappointment.

“It's the last time, sweetheart; we'll never be separated again.”

“Never?”

“Never in all the world--nor afterward.”

“I expect you think I'm silly,” she said, wiping her eyes, as they rose to go home, “but I don't want you to go away.”

“I don't want to go, dearest. If you're going to cry, you'll have me a raving maniac. I can't stand it, now.”

“I'm not going to,” she answered, smiling through her tears, “but it's a blessed privilege to have a nice stiff collar and a new tie to cry on.”

“They're at your service, dear, for anything but that. I suppose we're engaged now, aren't we?”

“I don't know,” said Ruth, in a low tone; “you haven't asked me to marry you.”

“Do you want me to?”

“It's time, isn't it?”

Winfield bent over and whispered to her.

“I must think about it,” said Ruth, very gravely, “it's so sudden.”

“Oh, you sweet girl,” he laughed, “aren't you going to give me any encouragement?”

“You've had some.”

“I want another,” he answered, purposely misunderstanding her, “and besides, it's dark now.”

The sweet-scented twilight still lingered on the hillside, and a star or two gleamed through the open spaces above. A moment later, Ruth, in her turn, whispered to him. It was only a word or two, but the bright-eyed robins who were peeping at them from the maple branches must have observed that it was highly satisfactory.

XII. Bride and Groom

Though Winfield had sternly determined to go back to town the following day, he did not achieve departure until later. Ruth went to the station with him, and desolation came upon her when the train pulled out, in spite of the new happiness in her heart.

She had little time to miss him, however, for, at the end of the week, and in accordance with immemorial custom, the Unexpected happened.

She was sitting at her window one morning, trying to sew, when the village chariot stopped at the gate and a lady descended. Joe stirred lazily on the front seat, but she said, in a clear, high-pitched voice: “You needn't trouble yourself, Joe. He'll carry the things.”

She came toward the house, fanning herself with a certain stateliness, and carrying her handkerchief primly, by the exact centre of it. In her wake was a little old gentleman, with a huge bundle, surrounded by a shawl-strap, a large valise, much the worse for wear, a telescope basket which was expanded to its full height, and two small parcels. A cane was tucked under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He could scarcely be seen behind the mountain of baggage.

Hepsey was already at the door. “Why, Miss Hathaway!” she cried, in astonishment.