moments to the fullest,—not to miss or mar an instant of the blessed time while it lasted.
The days were flying—flying—so rapidly she dared not think, and here was splendid October trailing her wonderful draperies over the hills like a lavish princess. When would David speak? But perhaps he was waiting for her to speak first? If so, how long ought she to remain silent? Often he caught the wistful look in her eyes, and half divined the meaning.
One day when they had wandered up her father's path, and the wind came in warm, soft gusts, sweeping over the miles of splendor from the sea, David drew her to him, determined to win from her a full expression.
"What is it, Cassandra? Open your heart. Don't shut anything away from me. What have you been dreaming lately?"
"You have never said a word of fault with me yet, David—for what I did, going away off there and not waiting quietly until you could come back, as you wrote me to do."
"That was the bravest, finest thing you ever did—but one." He was thinking of her renunciation.
"You are so good to forgive me, David. In one way it was better that I went, because it made me understand as I never could have done otherwise. You would never have told me, but now I know."
"Unfold a little of this wisdom, so I may judge of its value."