IT HAD rained drearily all the week, but there was nothing dreary in the atmosphere of the old farmhouse. The glow of Hildegarde's presence lighted it. It seemed astounding to the two aunts that her coming should have made such a difference. They waked in the morning to hear her singing, and all day long there was her laughter. Her youth and buoyancy made of every act an amazing adventure—of going through the nests for eggs, of setting the table, of gathering armfuls of autumn leaves, of foraging in the garden for the best of the wind-blown chrysanthemums, or of going down to the box for the mail.
"You'll take cold," her aunts warned her on a certain joyous morning when she came in with the newspapers and letters, her hair wet, her red raincoat glistening.
She shone upon them. "The gods will keep me until Crispin comes."
She was utterly frank about it, including them in her ecstasies. She had had Crispen's telegram and had lived since then on the heights. He was coming this very afternoon. Having made up her mind, Hildegarde's surrender was complete. The old aunts were almost afraid of such happiness. Her mother had been like that when she married Louis.
