They'll be
having it thirty years from now, just as you and I are, in the Old Gray
Homestead."
Mary Gray wiped her eyes. "Why, Howard," she said, "you used to say you
wanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that you _was_ one! I'd
rather you'd ha' said all that to me than--than to have been married to
Shakespeare!" she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down on
his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXI
Uncle Mat, whose long-postponed visit was at last taking place, sat
talking in front of the fire in Sylvia's living-room with the "new
minister." The room was bright with many candles, and early fall flowers
from her own garden stood about in clear glass vases. In the dining-room
beyond, they could see the two servants moving around the table, laid for
supper. A man's voice, whistling, and the sound of rapidly approaching
footsteps, came up the footpath from the Homestead. And at the same
moment, the door of Sylvia's own room opened and shut and there was the
rustle of silk and the scent of roses in the hall.
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