"I don't look nat'ral or feel nat'ral in them new clothes," he said to Aunt Mandy one day, "an' while I want to see Abby, I've lived in the woods so long I'm sorter 'shamed to go 'mongst respectable people. Then I look like one o' them wooden men dressed up in a store winder with that new rig on, an' jest know folks'll all be laughin' at me. I've got to go, I callate, but I'd like to make the trip in a cage. I'm sartin sure Abby'll laugh at me arterwards." From which it may be seen how hard it was for Old Cy to fit himself into civilized life once more. He nerved himself for the trip to Christmas Cove in a few days, however, and how he met and renewed acquaintance with his old-time sweetheart shall be told in his own words. "Abby hain't changed near so much as I callated," he said on his return; "a leetle fuller in figger, but jest the same easy-spoken, sweet sorter woman I always knew she'd be. She was 'lone when I called, an' fer a minit arter we shook hands neither on us could speak ag'in. Then she kinder bit her lip 'n' swallered her feelin's, keepin' her face turned away, an' then we sot down 'n' begun talkin'. It was techin', too, the way she acted, fer she kept tryin' to smile, 'n' all the while the tears kept startin'. It was like one o' them summer days when the rain patters while the sun is shinin'. I don't think she noticed my clothes much, either, an' we sot up till 'most midnight talkin' over old times. It all turned out 'bout the way I 'spected--a sorter funeral o' old hopes with us two fer mourners. She's powerful considerate, too, Abby is, for all the time we was talkin' she never once spoke o' Cap'n Bemis, 'n' I didn't. It was jest ez if we started in whar we left off, 'n' skippin' the gap between. She 'lowed she hoped she'd see me soon ag'in, that she felt like a mother to Chip; an' when I bid her good-bye, she kinder choked once more. "I didn't see much o' Chip, either, which sorter hurt me. Take it all in all, my visit thar upsot me more'n I callated, 'n' I guess when Chip's settled, I'd best go to the woods 'n' forgit all that's past. My life's been a failure, anyway." And Old Cy was right; but it was grim and merciless Fate that made it so, and for that he was not responsible. Love in youth is a sweet song of joy and hope and promise. But love that spans a lifetime, that reaches and caresses our heartstrings once again as we enter the final shadows, has only the pathos of parting and the tender chords of almost forgotten melodies in it. Vainly do we strive to enter the enchanted garden once more. Vainly do our heart throbs beat against its adamant walls. Vainly do we hope to catch just one more of the old bygone thrills. It is useless, for none can live life over, and once age has locked the portals of youth and fervor, they are never opened again. CHAPTER XLII