With a mystified smile but with no question, Hale silently handed his penknife to June and when, smiling but without a word, she walked behind the old Pine, he followed her. There he saw her reach up and dig the point of the knife into the trunk, and when, as he wonderingly watched her, she gave a sudden cry, Hale sprang toward her. In the hole she was digging he saw the gleam of gold and then her trembling fingers brought out before his astonished eyes the little fairy stone that he had given her long ago. She had left it there for him, she said, through tears, and through his own tears Hale pointed to the stricken oak:
“It saved the Pine,” he said.
“And you,” said June.
“And you,” repeated Hale solemnly, and while he looked long at her, her arms dropped slowly to her sides and he said simply:
“Come!”
Leading the horses, they walked noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of rhododendron, and there sat the little cabin of Lonesome Cove. The holy hush of a cathedral seemed to shut it in from the world, so still it was below the great trees that stood like sentinels on eternal guard. Both stopped, and June laid her head on Hale's shoulder and they simply looked in silence.
“Dear old home,” she said, with a little sob, and Hale, still silent, drew her to him.
“You were never coming back again?”
“I was never coming back again.” She clutched his arm fiercely as though even now something might spirit him away, and she clung to him, while he hitched the horses and while they walked up the path.
“Why, the garden is just as I left it! The very same flowers in the very same places!” Hale smiled.
“Why not? I had Uncle Billy do that.”
“Oh, you dear—you dear!”
Her little room was shuttered tight as it always had been when she was away, and, as usual, the front door was simply chained on the outside. The girl turned with a happy sigh and looked about at the nodding flowers and the woods and the gleaming pool of the river below and up the shimmering mountain to the big Pine topping it with sombre majesty.
“Dear old Pine,” she murmured, and almost unconsciously she unchained the door as she had so often done before, stepped into the dark room, pulling Hale with one hand after her, and almost unconsciously reaching upward with the other to the right of the door. Then she cried aloud:
“My key—my key is there!”
“That was in case you should come back some day.”
“Oh, I might—I might! and think if I had come too late—think if I hadn't come now!” Again her voice broke and still holding Hale's arm, she moved to her own door. She had to use both hands there, but before she let go, she said almost hysterically:
“It's so dark! You won't leave me, dear, if I let you go?”
For answer Hale locked his arms around her, and when the door opened, he went in ahead of her and pushed open the shutters. The low sun flooded the room and when Hale turned, June was looking with wild eyes from one thing to another in the room—her rocking-chair at a window, her sewing close by, a book on the table, her bed made up in the corner, her washstand of curly maple—the pitcher full of water and clean towels hanging from the rack. Hale had gotten out the things she had packed away and the room was just as she had always kept it. She rushed to him, weeping.
“It would have killed me,” she sobbed. “It would have killed me.” She strained him tightly to her—her wet face against his cheek: “Think—think—if I hadn't come now!” Then loosening herself she went all about the room with a caressing touch to everything, as though it were alive. The book was the volume of Keats he had given her—which had been loaned to Loretta before June went away.
“Oh, I wrote for it and wrote for it,” she said.
“I found it in the post-office,” said Hale, “and I understood.”
She went over to the bed.
“Oh,” she said with a happy laugh. “You've got one slip inside out,” and she whipped the pillow from its place, changed it, and turned down the edge of the covers in a triangle.
“That's the way I used to leave it,” she said shyly. Hale smiled.
“I never noticed that!” She turned to the bureau and pulled open a drawer. In there were white things with frills and blue ribbons—and she flushed.
“Oh,” she said, “these haven't even been touched.” Again Hale smiled but he said nothing. One glance had told him there were things in that drawer too sacred for his big hands.
“I'm so happy—so happy.”
Suddenly she looked him over from head to foot—his rough riding boots, old riding breeches and blue flannel shirt.
“I am pretty rough,” he said. She flushed, shook her head and looked down at her smart cloth suit of black.
“Oh, you are all right—but you must go out now, just for a little while.”
“What are you up to, little girl?”
“How I love to hear that again!”
“Aren't you afraid I'll run away?” he said at the door.
“I'm not afraid of anything else in this world any more.”
“Well, I won't.”
He heard her moving around as he sat planning on the porch.
“To-morrow,” he thought, and then an idea struck him that made him dizzy. From within June cried:
“Here I am,” and out she ran in the last crimson gown of her young girlhood—her sleeves rolled up and her hair braided down her back as she used to wear it.
“You've made up my bed and I'm going to make yours—and I'm going to cook your supper—why, what's the matter?” Hale's face was radiant with the heaven-born idea that lighted it, and he seemed hardly to notice the change she had made. He came over and took her in his arms:
“Ah, sweetheart, my sweetheart!” A spasm of anxiety tightened her throat, but Hale laughed from sheer delight.
“Never you mind. It's a secret,” and he stood back to look at her. She blushed as his eyes went downward to her perfect ankles.
“It is too short,” she said.
“No, no, no! Not for me! You're mine now, little girl, mine—do you understand that?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her mouth trembling, Again he laughed joyously.
“Come on!” he cried, and he went into the kitchen and brought out an axe:
“I'll cut wood for you.” She followed him out to the wood-pile and then she turned and went into the house. Presently the sound of his axe rang through the woods, and as he stooped to gather up the wood, he heard a creaking sound. June was drawing water at the well, and he rushed toward her:
“Here, you mustn't do that.”
She flashed a happy smile at him.
“You just go back and get that wood. I reckon,” she used the word purposely, “I've done this afore.” Her strong bare arms were pulling the leaking moss-covered old bucket swiftly up, hand under hand—so he got the wood while she emptied the bucket into a pail, and together they went laughing into the kitchen, and while he built the fire, June got out the coffee-grinder and the meal to mix, and settled herself with the grinder in her lap.
“Oh, isn't it fun?” She stopped grinding suddenly.
“What would the neighbours say?”
“We haven't any.”
“But if we had!”
“Terrible!” said Hale with mock solemnity.
“I wonder if Uncle Billy is at home,” Hale trembled at his luck. “That's a good idea. I'll ride down for him while you're getting supper.”
“No, you won't,” said June, “I can't spare you. Is that old horn here yet?”
Hale brought it out from behind the cupboard.
“I can get him—if he is at home.”
Hale followed her out to the porch where she put her red mouth to the old trumpet. One long, mellow hoot rang down the river—and up the hills. Then there were three short ones and a single long blast again.
“That's the old signal,” she said. “And he'll know I want him bad.” Then she laughed.
“He may think he's dreaming, so I'll blow for him again.” And she did.
“There, now,” she said. “He'll come.”
It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home and old Hon, down at the cabin, dropped her iron when she heard the horn and walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came again she could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism, she would herself have started at once for Lonesome Cove. As it was, she ironed no more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety and bewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home.
Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door watching June as she fixed the table and made the coffee and corn bread. Once only he disappeared and that was when suddenly a hen cackled, and with a shout of laughter he ran out to come back with a fresh egg.
“Now, my lord!” said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her face flushed from the heat.
“No,” said Hale. “I'm going to wait on you.”
“For the last time,” she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, and every time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the hand that served him.
“You're nothing but a big, nice boy,” she said. Hale held out a lock of his hair near the temples and with one finger silently followed the track of wrinkles in his face.
“It's premature,” she said, “and I love every one of them.” And she stooped to kiss him on the hair. “And those are nothing but troubles. I'm going to smooth every one of them away.”
“If they're troubles, they'll go—now,” said Hale.
All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove.
“Even if we do go away, we'll come back once a year,” said Hale.
“Yes,” nodded June, “once a year.”
“I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sell them as lumber.”
“Yes.”
“And I'll stock the river with bass again.”
“Yes.”
“And I'll plant young poplars to cover the sight of every bit of uptorn earth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can in the Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of the outside world.”
“And leave old Mother Nature to cover up the scars,” said June.
“So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was.”
“Just as it was in the beginning,” echoed June.
“And shall be to the end,” said Hale.
“And there will never be anybody here but you.”
“And you,” said June.
While she cleared the table and washed the dishes Hale fed the horses and cut more wood, and it was dusk when he came to the porch. Through the door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner. And through her door he saw one of the white things, that had lain untouched in her drawer, now stretched out on her bed.
The stars were peeping through the blue spaces of a white-clouded sky and the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers were dim, quiet and restful. A kingfisher screamed from the river. An owl hooted in the woods and crickets chirped about them, but every passing sound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they were engulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tell of everything that had happened since she left the mountains, and she told him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West—of her father's death and the homesickness of the ones who still were there.
“Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could never have been happy there,” she said, “even if it hadn't been for you—here.”
“I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,” said Hale, “an engineer without even a job and—” his face darkened.
“It's a shame, sweetheart, for you—” She put one hand over his lips and with the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. In the mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and around them the wrinkles were deep.
“Silly,” she said, tracing them gently with her finger tips, “I love every one of them, too,” and she leaned over and kissed them.
“We're going to be happy each and every day, and all day long! We'll live at the Gap in winter and I'll teach.”
“No, you won't.”
“Then I'll teach you to be patient and how little I care for anything else in the world while I've got you, and I'll teach you to care for nothing else while you've got me. And you'll have me, dear, forever and ever——”
“Amen,” said Hale.
Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprang to their feet. “It's Uncle Billy!” cried June, and she lifted the old horn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery halloo answered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up the road—coming at a gallop, and they went down to the gate and waited.
“Hello, Uncle Billy” cried June. The old man answered with a fox-hunting yell and Hale stepped behind a bush.
“Jumping Jehosophat—is that you, June? Air ye all right?”
“Yes, Uncle Billy.” The old man climbed off his horse with a groan.
“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I was skeered!” He had his hands on June's shoulders and was looking at her with a bewildered face.
“What air ye doin' here alone, baby?”
June's eyes shone: “Nothing Uncle Billy.” Hale stepped into sight.
“Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't gone! Well, bless my soul, if this ain't the beatenest—” he looked from the one to the other and his kind old face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own.
“You come back to stay?”
“My—where's that horn? I want it right now, Ole Hon down thar is a-thinkin' she's gone crazy and I thought she shorely was when she said she heard you blow that horn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here, if hit was you—to blow three times.” And straightway three blasts rang down the river.
“Now she's all right, if she don't die o' curiosity afore I git back and tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Gimme a drink o' water, son. I reckon me an' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gait in five year.”
June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, and what it was the old man's face told plainly.
“Yes, Uncle Billy—right away,” said Hale.
“Just as soon as you can git yo' license?” Hale nodded.
“An' June says I'm goin' to do it.”
“Yes,” said Hale, “right away.”
Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy that she had told to Hale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the old miller rose to go. Hale called him then into June's room and showed him a piece of paper.
“Is it good now?” he asked.
The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it and chuckled:
“Just as good as the day you got hit.”
“Well, can't you——”
“Right now! Does June know?”
“Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June!” he called.
“Yes, dear.” Uncle Billy moved hurriedly to the door.
“You just wait till I git out o' here.” He met June in the outer room.
“Where are you going, Uncle Billy?”
“Go on, baby,” he said, hurrying by her, “I'll be back in a minute.”
She stopped in the doorway—her eyes wide again with sudden anxiety, but Hale was smiling.
“You remember what you said at the Pine, dear?” The girl nodded and she was smiling now, when with sweet seriousness she said again: “Your least wish is now law to me, my lord.”
“Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you.” She shook her head.
“And you've walked right into it”
“I'm glad.” She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and she thought it was some matter of business.
“Oh,” she said, reproachfully. “You aren't going to bother with anything of that kind now?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to look over this.”
“Very well,” she said resignedly. He was holding the paper out to her and she took it and held it to the light of the candle. Her face flamed and she turned remorseful eyes upon him.
“And you've kept that, too, you had it when I——”
“When you were wiser maybe than you are now.”
“God save me from ever being such a fool again.” Tears started in her eyes.
“You haven't forgiven me!” she cried.
“Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then.”
He was looking at her queerly now and his smile was gone. Slowly his meaning came to her like the flush that spread over her face and throat. She drew in one long quivering breath and, with parted lips and her great shining eyes wide, she looked at him.
“Now?” she whispered.
“Now!” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown, she lifted both hands for a moment to her hair and unconsciously she began to roll one crimson sleeve down her round, white arm.
“No,” said Hale, “just as you are.”
She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrown back she looked at him long with steady eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed out—“just as you are—and now.”
Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch and when they came out, he rose to his feet and they faced him, hand in hand. The moon had risen. The big Pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature was their church and stars were their candles. And as if to give them even a better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the dark mountainside to the very garden in which the flowers whispered like waiting happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and a hush of expectancy seemed to come even from the farthest star.
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