Chestnut Street with stamping and jingling, the wagonette like black looking-glass drawn by bay looking-glass horses, Henderson touching his looking-glass hat and really beaming at Joe's tip and Kate's gracious good-by. Joe had shown her the wonders of Cedarmere that morning—the tidy potting sheds; the cold frames where big violets pressed their faces to the moisture-beaded glass like children looking out of windows; the grape houses with their childhood smells, growth, earth, damp warmth; and the gardener had cut them the grapes and flowers they were bringing home.
Beautiful home, so small and inconvenient, how Kate loved it! She ran all over it, free and relaxed, making as much noise as she liked. Up to their room—everything unchanged, although she felt as if they had been away for years; the bureau with its little balconies and terraces, whose mirror had reflected such an anxious face yesterday as she put on her hat; the volume of Tennyson with which she had tried to calm herself, still open in her chair where she had left it when she leaped at Joe's call, stopping in mid-verse, stopping here:
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
She read it again, with soft bright eyes. Oh, please, God, make my heart great enough to love Joe that way always! Make us both like that.
