had looked deep into her own heart and on its throne
she had found David.

He was waiting for her outside the church.

"You sang fine, Phoebe," he told her as they went down the street
together.

"Yes? I'm glad you liked it."

Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of the
thoughts lying deepest in the heart of each.

Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phoebe
reached home.

"Well," greeted the aunt, "did you come once! We thought that Feast of
Roses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long and
supper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?"

"Yes," the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chair
to the table.

"Now," cautioned the aunt, "put your apron on! That light goods in your
dress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spill
red-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled."

"I forgot." Phoebe took a blue gingham apron from a hook behind the
kitchen door. "There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug."

"Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high since
the war!"

"Tell me about the Feast of Roses," said the father. "Was the church
full?"

"Packed! It was a beautiful service."

"Well," spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people.
Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb
to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted
to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it?
It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red
rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers
right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of
bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for
a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit
her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess
she's glad it's over for another year."

CHAPTER XXXI

BLINDNESS

DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at
seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the
soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and
the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh
country air.

"Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for
me!"

Scarcely slackening his p