"Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But we did not come, for Rachel was afraid to go. She thought her mother would not like to have her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her that she wanted to go. So we sat like silly children in the dark. You see, I was afraid, too. Her father and mother were old, and old people cannot know how we feel when love first comes to us--and yet they loved, once!" "Yes, they loved once," said the youth, "but they forget. They think of lands and money and the most prudent course--they cannot feel their heart's blood rushing through their veins, surging in their ears, 'She loves me!' They cannot feel that one hour with her is dearer than years with the others of the world!" "And then we went in!" said the old man softly. "Then we went in! And her mother stood waiting for us. Rachel would not look up and I had to lead her by the hand. She feared that we could not make it plain, that her mother would scold us----" The youth laughed aloud. "But did she?" he said. And the old man laughed too. "No. She came to me and kissed me and then she held Rachel and cried. But not that she was sorry. Older people feel strange when the younger ones start away, you see." The young man picked up the roses and laid them again by the side of the couch. "Sleep," he said softly, "and dream of her!" And the old man's eyelids drooped and the hands that held the roses relaxed in quiet sleep. When he awoke the sun had almost set. The path of rays had faded and the creeping shadow had covered the highest step and lay along the porch. He felt feebly for the roses, but they were gone. And the sweet warm scent of them was only in his dim memory. But there sat in the shadow a man. Threads of grey were in his hair and lines around his firm mouth. But in his eyes shone yet a sweet strength, and he held his head high as he spoke. "Do you know where I have been?" he said. The old man shook his head. "Think!" said the other. Then while he looked into the stranger's eyes, there stole across his heart the wind that blows through the orchard when the fruit is ripe. He drew in great breaths of it, in doubt, and at last he said in a whisper so low that he hardly heard himself, "You have been to his grave--his little grave!" "Yes," said the man, "I have. His mother goes there alone--not even I go with her. She goes alone." "No," said the old man solemnly, "no. God goes with her. I thought that she would have died--why did she live?" "Because," said the other, "because you would have been alone. And you could not have kept yourself a man, if she had gone, too." "Ah, yes!" said the old man softly, "that is it. She is an angel! When he was born I was almost afraid. I said, 'My son! I have a son! If I should die to-night, he would live and I should live in him!' And when she brought him herself into the orchard--I see her now--I see her now!"