gs had stirred in their hearts to say at this time, yet
all their voices spoke was, "Well, Molly?" and "Well, Bob?" The moon
was in their faces as it shone through the elm at the gate. The man
turned his chair so that he could look at her, and after satisfying
his eyes he broke the silence with, "Seven years."

And she returned, "Seven years the thirteenth of April."

The man played a tune with his fingers and a foot and said nothing
more. The woman finally spoke. "Did you know it was the thirteenth?"

"Yes," he replied, "father died the ninth. I have often counted it
up." He added shortly after: "It's a long time--seven years! My! but
it has been a long time!"

"I have wondered if you have thought so," a pause, "too!"

Their hearts were beating too fast for thoughts to come coherently.
The fever of madness was upon them, and numbed their wills so that
they could not reach beneath the surface of their consciousnesses to
find words for their emotions. Then also there was in each a
deadening, flaming sense of guilt. Shame is a dumb passion, and these
two, who in the fastnesses of a thousand nights had told themselves
that what they sought was good and holy, now found in each other's
actual presence a gripping at the tongue's root that held them dumb.

"Yes, I--" the man mumbled, "yes, I--I fancied you understood that
well enough."

"But you have been busy?" she asked; "very busy, Bob, and oh, I've
been so proud of all that you've done." It was the woman's tongue that
first found a sincere word.

The man replied, "Well--I--I am glad you have."

It seemed to the woman a long time since her father had gone. Her
conscience was making minutes out of seconds. She said, "Don't you
think it's getting late?" but did not rise.

The man looked at his watch and answered, "Only 10.34." He started to
rise, but she checked him breathlessly.

"Oh, Bob, Bob, sit down. This isn't enough for these long years. I had
so many things to say to you." She hesitated and cried, "Why are we so
stupid now--now when every second counts?"

He bent slightly toward her and said in a low voice, "So that's why
your lilacs have never bloomed again."

She looked at her chair arm and asked, "Did you know they hadn't
bloomed?"

"Oh, Molly, of course I knew," he answered, and then went on: "Every
thirteenth of April I have slipped through the fence and come over
here, rain or shine, at night, to see if they were blooming. But I
didn't know why