"I'11 say good-bye now, Ivory, but I'11 see you at the
meeting-house," she said, as she neared the store. "I'll go in
here and brush the pine needles off, wash my hands, and rest a
little before rehearsal. That's a puzzling anthem we have for
to-morrow."
"I have my horse here; let me drive you up to the church."
"I can't, Ivory, thank you. Father's orders are against my
driving out with any one, you know."
"Very well, the road is free, at any rate. I'll hitch my horse
down here in the woods somewhere and when you start to walk I
shall follow and catch up with you. There's luckily only one way
to reach the church from here, and your father can't blame us if
we both take it!"
And so it fell out that Ivory and Waitstill walked together in
the cool of the afternoon to the meeting-house on Tory Hill.
Waitstill kept the beaten path on one side and Ivory that on the
other, so that the width of the country road, deep in dust, was
between them, yet their nearness seemed so tangible a thing that
each could feel the heart beating in the other's side.
Their talk was only that of tried friends, a talk interrupted by
long beautiful silences; silences that come only to a man and
woman whose understanding of each other is beyond question and
answer.
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