By and by the fall stillness gave out
a breath of heat, and the sun stood high overhead. Letty spread out her
dinner, and David made her a fire among the rocks. The smoke rose in a
blue efflorescence; and with the sweet tang of burning wood yet in the
air, they sat down side by side, drinking from one cup, and smiling
over the foolish nothings of familiar talk. At the end of the meal,
Letty took a parcel from the basket, something wrapped in a very fine
white napkin. She flushed a little, unrolling it, and her eyes
deepened.
"What's all this?" asked David, sniffing the air. "Fruit-cake?"
Letty nodded without looking at him; there was a telltale quivering in
her face. She divided the cake carefully, and gave her husband half.
David had lain back on a piny bank; and as he ate, his eyes followed
the treetops, swaying a little now in a rhythmic wind. But Letty ate
her piece as if it were sacramental bread. She put out her hand to him,
and he stroked the short, faithful fingers, and then held them close.
He smiled at her; and for a moment he mused again over that starry
light in her eyes. Then his lids fell, and he had a little nap, while
Letty sat and dreamed back over the hours, a year and more ago, when
her mother's house smelled of spices, and this cake was baked for her
wedding day.
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