"Sorter got suthin' in dis eye jes' now, an' got suthin' in my throat, too, I b'l'ebe. Neber seed de like. Man kaint stan' erbout yere widout gittin' all used up, things flyin' roun' so."
John caught Bradwell's hand and pressed it to his breast. "My dear boy," said the giant, "your approaching marriage is now placed upon a sensible footing. You and your wife shall go with me to Kentucky. The farm is not mine, but yours and mine. The house is large, is built of stone, and in it there are many rare books. I have all the time trusted that the light of truth would fall upon that crime, and now--but we will not talk about it. John, we will go over to-morrow and tell Mrs. Forest and Eva. Alf, you shall go to Kentucky with us."
John went to bed in a whirl of happiness. He could not sleep long at a time. Joy, as well as sorrow, puts sleep to flight. Would morning never come? What can come with such slowness as a wished-for day-break? Another doze. Sunlight streamed in upon the bed.
When Bradwell had shown Mrs. Forest the newspaper article, he told his story. The ladies were much affected, and Mrs. Forest, as she wiped her eyes, said:
"Well, I called you Bradshaw, you remember. I just knew it was Brad something, for I do think that I saw you in Kentucky years ago."
Eva and John walked along the road whose edges were fringed with flowers.
"There is nothing in our way now, precious."
"No," she replied, "nothing has been in the way, nothing, dear, but your groundless concern. Our life, I know, will almost be an ideal one."
"It shall be if love and faithfulness can make it so," he replied.
They sat down on a log and talked until the horn summoned them to dinner. That afternoon, as Bradwell and John were walking toward home, the young man remarked:
"Of course. Are we not going to Kentucky?"
"Yes; but Mrs. Forest, or rather Mrs. Bradwell, is going with us. Oh, you young fellows don't know everything."
They shook hands and walked on in happy silence.
The day was beautiful. It was autumn, and streaks of gray could be seen in the crab-grass. Age and infirmity had given to the "chatter jack's" song a harsher sound, and the toad, avoiding the grass where the dew was chilly, stretched himself in the dusty road.