As the first film of evening came creeping over earth, there fell a
hush between us. A blackbird--the same, I verily believe--took the
opportunity to welcome us. His note was no longer full and unstudied
as in May. The summer was nearly over, and with it his voice was
failing; but he did his best, and something in the hospitality of his
song prompted me to break the silence.
"This is the very spot on which we met for the first time--do you
remember?"
"Of course I remember," was the simple answer.
"You do?" I foolishly burned to hear the assurance again.
"Of course--it was such a lovely day."
"A blessed day," I answered, "the most blessed of my life."
There was a long pause here, and even the blackbird could hardly fill
it up.
"Do you regret it?"
(Why does man on these occasions ask such a heap of questions?)
"Why should I?"
(Why does woman invariably answer his query with another?)
"I hope there is no reason," I answered, "and yet--oh, can you not
see of what that day was the beginning? Can you not see whither
these last four months have carried me?"
The sun struck slanting on the water and ran in tapering lustre to
our feet.
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