By a
movement so soft that he should not be aware, she plucked him by the
coat sleeve on the other side from the fir and held on to him as he
strode on in careless joy.
Halfway up the hill lights began to flash from the windows of the
house: a servant was bringing in the lamps. It was at this hour, in
just this way, that she had first caught sight of them on that
Christmas Eve when he had brought her home after the wedding.
She hurried around in front of him, wishing to read the expression of
his eyes by the distant gleams from the windows. Would they have
nothing to say to her about those winter twilight lamps? Did he, too,
not remember?
His head and face were hidden; a thousand small spears of Nature
bristled between him and her; but he laughed out to her from behind
the rampart of the green spears.
At that moment a low sound in the distance drew her attention, and
instantly alert she paused to listen. Then, forgetting everything
else, she called to him with a rush of laughter like that of her
mischief-loving girlhood:
"Quick! There they are! I heard the gate shut at the turnpike! They
must not catch us! Quick! Quick!"
"Hurry, then!" he cried, as he ran forward, joining his laughter to
hers.
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