"Then I can help you study, and you can help me. I will have to pry you away from your books, perhaps, and poke food into your mouth." And so they laughed and planned and kept close to each other until he said, "Ann, you're not going your usual gait to-night. Are you tired?" "Yes--and I don't know why. I haven't done anything much to-day. Let's take hold of hands as we did at the May party and play we're children, only I'll walk if you don't mind. How big and strong and comfortable your hand is Abraham. I could shut my eyes and almost believe it was God leading me on." He held her hand a little tighter. She stopped a moment to cough. "Hadn't we better go in, Ann?" "No. It's such a lovely evening--like the night at the mill, and I do not see you often--not half enough. I could not endure it, only I know that we are both working hard so that just a little later we can be together all the time. Let me stay out a long while with you. I love to be near you." "As you say," he answered, "but I'm not so forgetful this time," and he took off his coat and wrapped it about her. They went on a little farther until they came to the steps over the stile and here they sat down and he drew her close to him. Somewhere down in the shadows a whippoor-will called. Then from far across the meadow the drowsy tinkle of a cow-bell reached their ears. "Listen, Ann," Abe said. "It makes me think of the night I heard you singin' on the bluff--the night I fell in love with the soul of you before I knew what your body looked like. The tinkle of a cow-bell will make me think of you and your song as long as I live." "Just as the smell of wild-plum blossoms will make me hear the mellow music of a horn floating over river and trees and make me think of you as long as I live." "Can't you sing for me, Ann--your pilgrim song? How I would like to hear your clear voice ring out here just now." "How strong I was then," Ann said reflectively. "It seems a long time ago. Just now I am not so much of a pilgrim as when I herded home the cows. Pilgrims are on the way somewhere you know, and I'm not traveling much these days--just to my school and back and helping mother. Will you wait until next time you come? I'll be myself again by then." "Look--the evenin' star is coming up," he said pointing. "Twilight and evenin' star and here we two sit together. Isn't it wonderful? The world is new to me, Ann. The same fields are here, the same woods, the same river flowin' between its wooded banks, the same sun, the same people, and yet all is changed--and all because of you. I hold that man to be most pitied of all men who does not know the meanin' of love. I used to wonder just what was meant by the words 'God is love' until I met you. Now I know that _love_ is _life_. God is the life of the world. This is love and so with the end of June old things have passed away. All has become new. My cup runneth over."