e, and slipped back to the empty house; and
there Jethro found her, and began helping her again.

The still afternoon settled down in its grooves of beauty, and its very
loveliness gave Dilly a pain at the heart. She remembered that this was
the hour when her mother used to yawn over her long seam, or her
knitting, and fall asleep by the window, while the bees droned outside
in the jessamine, and a humming-bird--there had always been one, year
after year, and Dilly could never get over the impression that it was
the same bird--hovered on his invisible perch and thrilled his wings
divinely. Then the day slipped over an unseen height, and fell into a
sheltered calm. The work was not done, and they had to go over to Mrs.
Pike's again to supper, and to spend the night. Dilly longed to stretch
herself on the old kitchen lounge in her own home; but Mrs. Pike told
her plainly that she was crazy, and Jethro, with a kindly authority,
bade her yield. And because words were like weapons that returned upon
her to hurt her anew, she did yield, and talked patiently to one and
another neighbor as they came in to see Jethro, and to inquire when he
meant to be married.

"Soon," said Jethro, with assurance. "As soon as Dilly makes up her
mind."

All that evening, Eli Pike sat on the steps, where he could hear the
talk in the sitting-room without losing the whippoorwill's song from the
Joyce orchard, and Dilly longed to slip out and sit quietly beside him.
He would know. But she could only be civil and grateful, and when half
past eight came, take her lamp and go up to bed. Jethro was given the
best chamber, because he had succeeded and came from Chicago; but Dilly
had a little room that looked straight out across the treetops down to
her own home.

At first, after closing the door behind her, she felt only the great
blessedness of being alone. She put out the light and threw herself, as
she was, face downwards on the bed. There she lay for long moments,
suffering; and this was one of the few times in her life when she was
forced to feel that human pain which is like a stab in the heart. For
she was one of those wise creatures who give themselves long spaces of
silence, and so heal them quickly of their wounds, like the sage little
animals that slip away from combat, to cure their hurt with leaves.
Presently, a great sense of rest enfolded her, a rest ineffably precious
because it was so soon to be over. It was like great riches lent