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“Dorcas,” said her father, “git your bunnit. It’s time for Sunday-school.”

“Yes, father.”

The expected knock came at the door. She went forward, tying on her bonnet, and her cheeks were pink. The doctor stood on the doorstone, and Phoebe was with him. He smiled at Dorcas, and put out his hand. This, according to Tiverton customs, was a warm demonstration at so meaningless a moment; it seemed a part of his happy friendliness. It was Phoebe who spoke.

“I’ll stay outside while the doctor goes in. I can sit down here on the step. Your father needn’t know I am here any more than usual. I told the doctor not to talk, coming up the walk.”

The doctor smiled at her. Phoebe looked like a rose in her Sunday white, and the elder woman felt a sudden joy in her, untouched by envy of her youth and bloom. Phoebe only seemed a part of the beautiful new laws to which the world was freshly tuned, Dorcas coveted nothing; she envied nobody. She herself possessed all, in usurping her one rich kingdom.

“All right,” she said. “The doctor can step in now, and see father. I’ll hurry back, as soon as Sunday-school is over.” She walked away, glancing happily at the flowers on either side of the garden-path. She wanted to touch all their leaves, because, last night, he had praised them.

Returning, when her hour was over, she walked very fast; her heart was waking into hunger, and she feared he might be gone. But he was there, sitting on the steps beside Phoebe, and when the gate swung open, they did not hear. Phoebe’s eyes were dropped, and she was poking her parasol into the moss-encrusted path; the doctor was looking into her face, and speaking quite eagerly. He heard Dorcas first, and sprang up. His eyes were so bright and forceful in the momentary gleam of meeting hers, that she looked aside, and tried to rule her quickening breath.

“Miss Dorcas,” said he, “I’m telling this young lady she mustn’t forget to eat her dinner at school. I find she quite ignores it, if she has sums to do, or blots to erase. Why, it’s shocking.”

“Of course she must eat her dinner!” said Dorcas, tenderly. “Why, yes, of course! Phoebe, do as he tells you. He knows.”

Phoebe blushed vividly.

“Does he?” she answered, laughing. “Well, I’ll see. Good-by, Miss Dorcas. I’ll come in for Friday night meeting, if I don’t before. Good-by.”

“I’ll walk along with you,” said the doctor. “If you’ll let me,” he added, humbly.

Phoebe turned away with a little toss of her head, and he turned, too, breaking a sprig of southernwood. Dorcas was glad to treasure the last sight of him putting to his lips the fragrant herb she had bruised for his sake. It seemed to carry over into daylight the joy of the richer night; it was like seeing the silken thread on which her pearls were strung. She called to them impetuously,–

“Pick all the flowers you want to, both of you!” Then she went in, but she said aloud to herself, “They’re all for you–” and she whispered his name.

“Dorcas,” said her father, “the doctor’s been here quite a spell. He says there was a real full meetin.’ Even Nancy Pete, Dorcas! I feel as if my ministration had been abundantly blessed.”

Then, in that strangest summer in Dorcas’s life, time seemed to stand still. The happiest of all experiences had befallen her; not a succession of joys, but a permanent delight in one unchanging mood. The evening of his coming had been the first day; and the evening and the morning had ever since been the same in glory. He came often, sometimes with Phoebe, sometimes alone; and, being one of the men on whom women especially lean, Dorcas soon found herself telling him all the poor trials of her colorless life. Nothing was too small for his notice. He liked her homely talk of the garden and the church, and once gave up an hour to spading a plot where she wanted a new round bed. Dorcas had meant to put lilies there, but she remembered he loved ladies’-delights; so she gathered them all together from the nooks and corners of the garden, and set them there, a sweet, old-fashioned company. “That’s for thoughts!” She took to wearing flowers now, not for the delight of him who loved them, but merely as a part of her secret litany of worship. She slept deeply at night, and woke with calm content, to speak one name in the way that forms a prayer. He was her one possession; all else might be taken away from her, but the feeling inhabiting her heart must live, like the heart itself.