He took her hand, and they walked on among the trees. "You talk like a virtue translated from a foreign tongue," he said. He called her a heathen grace. She protested. She was a Christian, so devout that she would have hung her head in the potato field had she heard the ringing of the angelus. They saw a woman on a wheel, and he dropped her hand. The woman waved at them, jumped off and came to meet them, smiling. It was Mrs. Blakemore. "Oh, I am so surprised and delighted," she said, shaking hands. "Why, how unexpected! You must come home with me. I don't live far from here. Bobbie will be delighted to see you. He refuses to go to school, and we won't force him, he is so delicate. How well you look, Gunhild! And you too, Mr. Milford." The man would have yielded against his will; the woman saw this and declined the invitation. She said that they had an engagement to dine. Milford looked at her in surprise. He thought of the frost-tinted leaf. Mrs. Blakemore was sorry--she said. It would be such a disappointment to Bobbie. George was out of town. She bade them an effusive good-bye, mounted her wheel, pulling at her short skirts, and glided away. "Engagement to dine?" said Milford, as they turned from watching Mrs. Blakemore. "Yes, at the little bakery over by the edge of the park." "Oh, I see. But I thought you wanted to go with her." "I knew that you did not," she replied. "But did you?" he asked. "I would not spoil a beautiful day," she answered. They dined at the bakery, flattering themselves that the girl who waited on them did not know that they were lovers. They did not see her wink at her fat mother behind the showcase. "I haven't asked you how long I may stay," said Milford, as they walked out. "I was afraid to come to that," she replied. "I must leave on the train to-night. I have only waited for you." "When do you think I can see you again?" "I do not know. I will write." "Remember that nothing can keep us apart--nothing but yourself." "Then we shall not be kept apart. But why do you leave it with me?" "Because you are to decide when I tell you something." "Do you put it off because it is so hard to tell?" "No, because I'm not ready yet. I will be when I close out with the old woman." "I would like to know now." "It would be plucking green fruit," he replied. "You know best," she said, trustfully. The air grew chilly when the sun had set, and they returned to the cottage to sit alone in the parlor. They heard the kindly tones of the gripman talking to his children. There was a melodeon in the room, and she played a Norwegian hymn. The barefoot youngsters scampered in the passage-way. "Let them come in," he said. "No, they are undressed for bed," she replied. It was the evening romp, a tired mother's trial-time before the hour of rest when all are asleep.