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They
sat
in
the
garden
for
a
long
minute
.
He
glanced
over
at
her
face
.
She
was
looking
at
the
farthest
garden
wall
and
the
pink
roses
climbing
there
.
There
was
no
way
to
tell
what
she
was
thinking
.
Her
face
showed
nothing
.
She
rocked
for
a
little
while
in
her
chair
and
then
said
softly
,
"
Shall
we
have
some
more
tea
?
There
you
are
.
"
They
sat
sipping
the
tea
.
Then
she
reached
over
and
patted
his
arm
.
"
Thank
you
.
"
"
For
what
?
"
"
For
wanting
to
come
to
find
me
at
the
dance
,
for
clipping
out
my
picture
,
for
everything
.
Thank
you
so
very
much
.
"
They
walked
about
the
garden
on
the
paths
.
"
And
now
,
"
she
said
,
"
it
’
s
my
turn
.
Do
you
remember
,
I
mentioned
a
certain
young
man
who
once
attended
me
,
seventy
years
ago
?
Oh
,
he
’
s
been
dead
fifty
years
now
,
at
.
least
,
but
when
he
was
very
young
and
very
handsome
he
rode
a
fast
horse
off
for
days
,
or
on
summer
nights
over
the
meadows
around
town
.
He
had
a
healthy
,
wild
face
,
always
sunburned
,
his
hands
were
always
cut
and
he
fumed
like
a
stovepipe
and
walked
as
if
he
were
going
to
fly
apart
;
wouldn
’
t
keep
a
job
,
quit
those
he
had
when
he
felt
like
it
,
and
one
day
he
sort
of
rode
off
away
from
me
because
I
was
even
wilder
than
he
and
wouldn
’
t
settle
down
,
and
that
was
that
.
I
never
thought
the
day
would
come
when
I
would
see
him
alive
again
.
But
you
’
re
pretty
much
alive
,
you
spill
ashes
around
like
he
did
,
you
’
re
clumsy
and
graceful
combined
,
I
know
everything
you
’
re
going
to
do
before
you
do
it
,
but
after
you
’
ve
done
it
I
’
m
always
surprised
.
Reincarnation
’
s
a
lot
of
milk
-
mush
to
me
,
but
the
other
day
I
felt
,
What
if
I
called
Robert
,
Robert
,
to
you
on
the
street
,
would
William
Forrester
turn
around
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
know
,
"
he
said
.
"
Neither
do
I
.
That
’
s
what
makes
life
interesting
.
"
August
was
almost
over
.
The
first
cool
touch
of
autumn
moved
slowly
through
the
town
and
there
was
a
softening
and
the
first
gradual
burning
fever
of
color
in
every
tree
,
a
faint
flush
and
coloring
in
the
hills
,
and
the
color
of
lions
in
the
wheat
fields
.
Now
the
pattern
of
days
was
familiar
and
repeated
like
a
penman
beautifully
inscribing
again
and
again
,
in
practice
,
a
series
of
it
’
s
and
w
’
s
and
m
’
s
,
day
after
day
the
line
repeated
in
delicate
rills
.
