"
"What did he mean?" Sam said, with the curious literalness of the
poetic temperament, entirely devoid of humor. But he did not wait for
an answer; he locked his hands about his knee, and leaning his head
back, looked up through the leaves at the stars. "How sweet the locust
blossoms are!" he said. One of the yellow-white flakes fell and
touched his cheek.
"They are falling so now," she said, "that the porch has to be swept
twice a day."
He smiled, and brushing his palm along the step, caught a handful of
them, "Every night you sit here all alone; I wish--"
"Oh, I like to be alone," she interrupted. As the balm of David's
presence faded, and the worship in the young man's eyes burned
clearer, that old joke of Lloyd's stabbed her. She wished he would go.
"How does the drama get on?" she asked, with an effort.
Sam frowned and said something of his father's impatience with his
writing. "But I am only happy when I am writing; and when I am with
you. The play is my life,--next to you."
"Please don't!" she said; and then held her breath to listen. "I think
I hear David. Excuse me a minute." She fled into the house and up-
stairs to David's room. "Did you want me, precious?" she said panting,
David opened dreaming eyes and looked at her. He had called out in his
sleep, but was quiet again, and did not need her eager arms, her lips
on his hair, her voice murmuring in his ear.
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