"I've loved seeing you over here," I says. "It's made me young again. I've loved watching you say good-by in the mornings, and meet again evenings. I've loved looking out over here to the light when you sat reading, and I could see your shadows go acrost the curtains sometimes, when I sat rocking in my house by myself. It's all been something I've liked to know was happening. It seemed as if a beautiful, new thing was beginning in the world--and you were it." All at once I got kind of mad at the two of them. "And here for a little tinkering matter about screens for the parlor, you go and spoil all my fun by not speaking to each other!" I scolded, sharp. It was that, I think, that turned the tide and made them laugh. They both did laugh, hearty--and they looked at each other and laughed--I noticed that. For two folks can _not_ look at each other and laugh and stay mad same time. They can _not_ do it. I went right on: "So," I says, "I told you each the truth, that the other one was sick. So you were, both of you. Sick at heart. And you know it." He put out his hand to her. "I know it," he says. "I know too," says she. "Land!" says I, "you done that awful pretty. If I could give in that graceful about anything I'd go round giving in whether I'd said anything to be sorry for or not. I'd do it for a parlor trick." "Was it hard, dear?" he says to her. And she put up her face to him just as if I hadn't been there. I liked that. And it made me feel as much at home as the clock. He looked hard at me. "Truly," he says, "didn't you mean she looked bad?" "I meant just what I said," says I. "She did look bad. But she don't now." "And you made it all up," she says, "about something serious being the matter with him--" "Made it up!" says I. "No! But what ailed him this morning doesn't ail him now. That's all. I s'pose you're both mad at me," I says, mournful. He took a deep breath. "Not when I'm as thankful as this," he says. "And me," she says. "And me." I looked around the little garden of the Henslows' cottage, with the moon behaving as if everything was going as smooth as glass--don't you always notice that about the moon? What grand manners it's got? It never lets on that anything is the matter. He threw his arm across her shoulder in that gesture of comradeship that is most the sweetest thing they do. They got up and came over to me quick. "We can't thank you--" she says. "Shucks," I says. "I been wishing I had something to give you. I couldn't think of anything but vegetables. Now mebbe I've give you something after all--providing you don't go and forget it the very next time," I says, wanting to scold them again. They walked to the gate with me. The night was black and pale gold, like a great soft drowsy bee.