Then, when evening
came, she was all in white again, and there was the simple supper served
by candle-light in the little dining-room, and the quiet hours in front
of the glowing fire afterwards, and the long, still nights with the soft
stars shining in, and the cool air blowing through the open windows of
their room.
Then, when the Old Gray Homestead had settled down to the blessed
peacefulness and security which, the harvest safely in, the snows still a
long way off, comes to every New England farm in the late fall, they
closed their white-panelled front door behind them, and sailed away
together, as Austin had wished to do. There were a few gay weeks in
London and Paris, The Hague and Rome--"enough," wrote Sylvia, "so that we
won't forget there _is_ any one else in the world, and use the wrong fork
when we go out to dine." There was a fortnight at the little Dutch house
where by this time Peter and Edith were spending the winter with Peter's
parents--"where our bed," wrote Sylvia, "was a great big box built into
the wall, but, oh! so soft and comfortable; with another box for the very
best cow just around the corner from it, and the music of Peter's
mother's scrubbing-brush for our morning hymn.
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