"No, no! I'm not so bad as that! In fact I look about as I did when a boy, only--more beautiful." "Then you are a funny looking man, Drowsy, with your sleepy eyes and your little buttoned-up mouth." Cyrus laughed. "No, I swear I'm not funny looking. I have the same eyes, but my mouth is three times as long. It's one of the largest and most admired mouths in Massachusetts. But why these questions? You saw me a few minutes ago when I came along. The glare of those headlights ought to illuminate any kind of a face." "You held your hand before your face to shade your eyes." "So I did. But, seriously, Ruthy, I realize now that all my old feeling for you has never died. Your voice alone revives the memories of those pleasant years. Why part again? It might be forever." "A thousand reasons." "But no good ones. What better test of my affection could you want? I don't ask to see your face. Your voice, your words, yourself, and old-time memories are more than enough. Come. Say yes." "No. Never in the world! Suppose, when you could really see me, there came regrets. What a position for a woman! Oh, no! Never that!" "Don't say 'never.'" "Is this a habit of yours--making love in the dark to women you don't know? You should have a guardian." "Be that guardian!" "Thank you, I have other occupations." Here came a silence. The thoughts of Cyrus, whatever they might be, were interrupted by Ruth: "You must think me a most adaptable woman, Cyrus, to fall in love, at a minute's notice, with a voice and a memory." "If you are a toothless, hairless, wrinkled, one-eyed hag you ought to be grateful." "A toothless hag, even with no pride--may have a little caution." "Anyway," said Cyrus, and he spoke more seriously--and with more decision--"I am in earnest. I may be talking like a fool--I don't know how to express myself. Meeting you again is like a new life. As a little girl, Ruthy, you were everything to me. You don't know what a difference, what a void it made when you vanished and left me adrift. Now that we are again together, and I am older, I realize what I lost. After you left Longfields--and your leaving was awfully sudden, if you remember--not even a chance to say good-by--I used to sit on your doorstep and try to think you would come out." "Is that true?" "On my honor. And one moonlight night when father and Joanna thought I was in bed I stood at my window and tried to get a message to you, in the old way--hoping a thought would reach you. Then I stole out of the house, ran to yours and threw little stones against the closed shutters of your empty chamber. Of course no answer came. But I waited and waited. The moonlight seemed to encourage me. And when I had waited in vain--a very long time,--it seemed a year--I pretended you came to the window and we had a long talk." She laughed. "And what did I say?"