“We’re quite as near the convent,” I put in, in a manner that must have been agonized. “But that’s up hill--” said Miss Sheila, and then she and Sam began to hurry so fast that it was all I could do to keep up with them, and I hadn’t a chance to say a word. “Sam,” I gasped as we neared Mr. Wake’s wall, and big, far-apart drops of rain began to fall, “_Sam!_” “What’s up?” he asked. “Oh, everything!” I answered, “and you’re just acting like a _fool_, Sam--we _can’t_ go in!” But Miss Sheila had pulled the bell cord that hung outside of the gate, and before it was opened the rain came down in such torrents that we were drenched. “Mr. Wake’s in town,” said Sam to me, in an aside. “Why didn’t you _say_ so?” I snapped. And then the gate opened. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE MISCHIEVOUS CUPID The gate was opened by Mr. Wake--who had just come _back_ from town--and was as wet as we were. I felt my heart stop a beat and then treble its pace, and I swallowed hard although there was no real necessity for it. And as for saying a word! I couldn’t have gotten out a “Boo” so that any one would have understood it! “Hello,” said Sam, after he had sent a petitioning look at me, that asked me as plainly as day, to introduce them, “Hello! Glad you’re here! . . . Miss Parrish, may I present to you our patron saint, Mr. Wake?” _Then_ I think Sam began to see that something unusual was up, for they stood looking at each other--those two he’d wanted to have meet--and they didn’t say a word. It was a queer moment which seemed very long, that moment when we all stood in the hard driving, swirling rain, _waiting_. Miss Sheila broke it, and she did it by holding out her hand, and saying, “Well, Terry?” and there was a funny little twisted smile on her pretty lips and the smile didn’t seem miles away from tears. And then Mr. Wake put his hand out, in an uncertain, groping sort of way, and then he said, “_Sheila!_” And I don’t think he knew he said it, but she did, for the color came flooding back into her cheeks that had been pale, and tears stood in her eyes. There wasn’t very much to _tell_ about in that moment; you can’t _tell_ about a sunset very well. You can say that the clouds were pink and gold, and that the sky was full of silver streaks, and a misty purple haze, but you can’t make the other person see it. You don’t usually do anything but bore him, and when you try to describe the thing that was so beautiful, the listener usually says, “I love the outdoors. Nature for me every time! Hear about the way Babe Ruth batted ’em out Thursday in Brooklyn?” or something like that which shows you that you have utterly failed to get your description across the plate. And because of that I hesitate to try to make others see what I saw in Mr. Wake’s garden that stormy day. I can only _report_ the pink and the gold, and the misty purple and the silver streaks, and do that badly. But oh, they were so very, very beautiful!