When they left him, in the warm, late afternoon, lying listless on his couch in the porch, they thought he would stay alone there till they came again. His little granddaughter, indeed, felt so sad at deserting him that she ran back and kissed him twice. "To leave Grandpapa alone!" she said. But he was not alone; there came to him strange guests and sweet. And this was the manner of their coming.  
As he watched the shadow creeping up the steps, he thought how often he had marked the time by it in the far away days. He remembered how he had tried to keep in the broad sunbeam that lay along the walk, when he used to run home to supper tired and hungry, shouting to his mother that his school was over and out and that he had come—"So hungry, mother dear!" And as he thought of her, slow tears crept from under his old eyelids, and he raised his hand feebly to wipe them[222] away. When he saw clearly again, he started slightly, for up the path, walking in the sunbeam, came a boy. He smiled sweetly, cheerily at the old man, and sat down confidingly, close to the couch. "It is so warm in the sun!" he said.
 
The old man turned uneasily and looked at him. "Are you Arthur's son?" he asked doubtfully. "My eyes are so dim—I cannot always tell you apart, at first. Are you Arthur's son?"
 
"No," said the child.
 
"Are you——" but then the boy looked full in his face and the old man could not take his eyes from that searching smile. And as he looked, there grew around his heart the sweet faint breath of lilac trees, though it was early autumn and not at all the spring. And deep in the child's eyes was so strange a soul—yet so familiar! As he looked yet deeper the lilac scent grew stronger and he dared not turn away his eyes, lest he should lose it. So he listened to the child, who spoke brightly yet gravely, with his head resting against the old man's knee.
 
"See!" he said, "the lilacs are all out! I took[223] a bunch to school, and the teacher wore them in her dress. Oh, but I grow tired of the school in the mornings, when the birds sing under the window! The brook is all full with the flood water, do you know?"
 
"Yes," said the old man dreamily, "yes, I know."
 
"There are pickerel there—I saw one, anyway!" said the boy. "The old one—he lives under the stone all alone. If I could get him, I'd be proud enough! But I never can—I can only catch him on a Friday night when the moon is full, and then I'm not allowed out! The man that weeds the garden told me that. Do you remember?"
 
"Yes, I remember," said the old man.
 
"But if I don't fish, I don't care so much," said the boy happily. "For I get so wet and dirty, and Rachel doesn't like me then. I can't look on her book. She is so dear! She never spots the ink on her apron, like the other girls. And she never eats fish, either. She thinks it hurts them too much to kill them. I don't think so—do you? But girls are different."
 
[224]
 
"Where are you going to-night?" said the old man, quietly, yet his voice trembled.
 
"I'm going to sing to Rachel's grandfather. He's blind, you know."
 
"Yes," said the old man, "and old. His hair is white. He walks with a cane. But he loves the singing."
 
"Then to-morrow I must go to church," said the boy. "The minister talks and prays and I get so sleepy. But mother keeps a peppermint for me, just before the second hymn. Then I have it for the long prayer. And I can sing the hymns. Rachel never looks at me, she sits so still in church. And she won't play on Sunday. I can have my whip and two of the largest marbles. Do you think that is wrong?"
 
"No," said the old man, "I don't think that is wrong."
 
"And we have gingerbread on the porch in the afternoon," said the boy, "and Rachel comes. Mother says children must not be vexed at the Lord's Day."
 
"Yes," said the old man, "mother is so good to[225] us—so good——" and when he saw clearly again, the child was gone. Only the shadow lay upon the upper step of the porch, and the sunbeam was shrunken to a narrow path of light.
 
He stretched out his trembling hands and called sorrowfully to the boy. "Come back! O come back! I had forgotten so much! And the lilacs——" but he was alone. And his hair was almost white. He covered his face with his hands and shivered. For the shadow was creeping up the porch.
 
And then over his chilled heart there came the breath of roses—summer roses. The air struck warm and soft upon his cheeks. And when he dropped his hands there stood in the sun-ray a straight tall youth. His eyes were shining with strength; his smile was happiness itself. In his firm brown hands he held roses—summer roses. The old man forgot to be afraid and raised himself on the cushions.
 
"Give them to me—give them!" he cried. The young man laughed low and laid the red flowers softly up against the withered cheeks. Then he sat down and took the cold, dry hands in his.
 
[226]
 
"What do they make you remember?" he said.
 
The old man sighed for pure joy. "Ah, how sweet—how heavenly sweet! Did they come from the garden behind her father's house?"
 
"Yes," said the youth, "from the old bush near the wall. It was moonlight, and we picked them together. I reached the highest ones, because Rachel is not tall. She wore——"
 
"She wore the white gown with the big shade hat," said the old man eagerly. "And I made a wreath for her shoulders. I called her—what did I call her? The queen—the queen"—
 
"The queen of roses," said the youth.
 
"Ah, yes, the queen of roses!" said the old man. "Her mouth was like the pink, young buds. We went up and down the long paths, and I wanted her to take my arm."
 
"But she would not," laughed the young man. "She said that old folks might lean, but she could run as well as any man!"
 
"So she ran through the garden, and I after!" cried the old man, crushing the roses till they filled the porch with sweetness. "She hid behind[227] the old elm and let me call and call. And I had to find her in the moonshadows. You know she grew afraid and cried out when I caught her? And yet she knew I would. But women are so. Her mother knew I was with her, so she let us stay till it was late. Rachel's mother was kind to me, you know?"
 
"Yes," said the young man. "But she knew that Rachel——"
 
"Ah!" said the old man quickly, "it seems they all knew! All but Rachel and me! Now that is so strange. For we should have known it first. But Rachel laughed so when I tried to tell her, she said—what was it she said?"
 
"That you were too young to know how you would think of it later," said the youth.
 
"And I said, 'I'm old enough to know I love you, Rachel, now and for ever!'" said the old man softly, clasping his hands together so that the roses dropped to the ground. "And then she did not laugh at all, but only held her head down so I could not see her eyes, and would not speak."
 
"It was so still," said the youth. "There was[228] no breeze, and everything in the garden listened, listened, for what she would say."
 
"But nothing in the garden could hear," said the old man eagerly, "because she only whispered!"
 
"Was it then that her mother called?" asked the youth.
 
"Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But we did not come, for Rachel was afraid to go. She thought her mother would not like to have her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her that she wanted to go. So we sat like silly children in the dark. You see, I was afraid, too. Her father and mother were old, and old people cannot know how we feel when love first comes to us—and yet they loved, once!"
 
"Yes, they loved once," said the youth, "but they forget. They think of lands and money and the most prudent course—they cannot feel their heart's blood rushing through their veins, surging in their ears, 'She loves me!' They cannot feel that one hour with her is dearer than years with the others of the world!"
 
............