“Were you running away from me?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I have been to fetch you a plum. Look!” And she showed him two in a leaf.
“They are too pretty to eat!” said he.
“You have not tasted yet,” she laughed.
“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let us go up to the water.” She took his arm.
It was a splendid evening, with the light all thick and yellow lying on the smooth pond. Lettie made him lift her on to a leaning bough of willow. He sat with his head resting against her skirts. Emily and I moved on. We heard him murmur something, and her voice reply, gently, caressingly:
“No—let us be still—it is all so still—I love it best of all now.”
Emily and I talked, sitting at the base of the alders, a little way on. After an excitement, and in the evening, especially in autumn, one is inclined to, be sad and sentimental. We had forgotten that the darkness was weaving. I heard in the little distance Leslie’s voice begin to murmur like a flying beetle that comes not too near. Then, away down in the yard George began singing the old song, “I sowed the seeds of love.”
This interrupted the flight of Leslie’s voice, and as the singing came nearer, the hum of low words ceased. We went forward to meet George. Leslie sat up, clasping his knees, and did not speak. George came near, saying:
“The moon is going to rise.”
“Let me get down,” said Lettie, lifting her hands to him to help her. He, mistaking her wish, put his
