I didn't know how to say I'm thankful enough to hev her back. Say—she ain't changed a mite."
"You can't change gold," said his wife. "'Twill allus be gold."
"Thet's so. She's pretty 's a pink, now, ain't she? She puts me in mind of you, Emerline, w'en we fust begun to keep company."
"What talk! You go to sleep."
"But, Emerline—she's so—so—like a flower. Do you s'pose, jest s'pose, she'll ever be keepin' company 'ith anybody?"
"I should hope so! Sometime."
"Well, I don' know, mother. I don' know 's I want ter give her up to the best man goin'. And he mightn't be the best man goin'. I—I don't feel as if the Angel Gabriel 'd be more 'n good enough for her. And I'd ruther he didn't come round. I tell ye, w'en you've done yer best for your child, an' sot your heart on her, an' look forrud to her holdin' the light to yer old age, 'tain't easy ter see another man come along an' snake her away from ye. I don' know 's I'd like ter see her any man's wife—"
"She'd be your daughter still ef she was ten men's wives."
"Ten men's wives! Why, mother—"
"Mr. James, your piller's full of live-geese feathers. It 'll be sunup in no time. An' there's the long medder to-morrer."
"You're talking about me! I know you are!" cried a gay voice at the top of the stairs above. "If you don't stop I shall come down and talk too!"
"We ain't spoke your name!" cried her father.
"Burrage's dogs keepin' ye awake, Lally?" said her mother.
"Oh no. But I'm so happy I can't sleep! I'll try again, though. Good night."
"I'd like ter hed her come down, jes ter see ef 'twas really her," whispered her father. "Mother, you put yer hand on my eyes, an' mebbe I'll go off. I guess that's w'at's the matter of me—I'm too happy ter sleep." And under the calm, cool touch he was presently lost in happy dreams.
The bobolink's nest down on the floor of the long meadow, in its tangle of sunbeams and the shadow of tall grasses, with the soft flower-scented wind stirring just above it, did not hold more happiness than this old farm-cottage held. But one day the shadow of a man fell athwart the grass and shut the sun away; and the bobolink knew it meant the morrow's mowing, and ruin. And one day Father James saw the shadow of a man fall across the farm.
It was in the shape of a letter handed to him in the village, where he had gone to sell his asparagus and rhubarb stalks. He had taken the letter between his thumb and finger as if it were a reptile, reading the boldly written address, "Miss Laura James," without his glasses, and with a feeling that some one was taking a liberty with his daughter's name; and he tucked it under the seat before driving home, the colt being in an antic mood.
"There was a letter for you, Lally," he said, when he came in. "But I put it under the cushing, an' 'tain't there now. Must 'a' joggled out. Dinner mos' ready, mother?"
"Father James!" cried Lally, stopping suddenly with the colander of pease in her hands. "Have you lost my letter? Oh, you don't mean so!"
"Wal, never mind. Le's hev dinner, an' then I'll go back an' find it, ef you say so."
But Lally, waiting for no dinner, had snatched her hat from the entry nail while he spoke, and was off down the dust of the highway, searching both sides as she ran, coming back contentedly before very long, the driver of a team following her father's having found the treasure and given it to her. She had sat down in a broken part of the stone wall, where the wild sweetbrier and blackberry vines climbed all about, and had read the letter, and looking round swiftly, had kissed the sheet before she read it, and afterward. And her father knew in his intimate consciousness that she had done so—whether by the flush on her cheek deep as a damask rose, by the blaze in her eyes like blue diamonds, or by some inner unknown sympathy.
She was swinging her hat, and coming leisurely through the hot sunshine. "I found it, father," she cried, joyously, as she saw him sitting on the door-stone. "Why, you needn't look so serious, dear.
