toward her spiritual growth, the beauty of the night, the gentle slope
of the mountain, the wavering wings of the shadows, the song of the
river, the calls of the whippoorwill and the katydids, the perfume of
the unseen green things in the wet places, and the overmastering
sweetness of the lilies.

At last Mrs. Wilford Biggs arose to go, and also John Mangam. Both said
they must be goin', they guessed, and that was the first remark that had
been made by either of them. Mrs. Biggs moved with loose flops down the
front walk, and John Mangam walked stiffly behind her. She had merely to
cross the road; he had half a mile to walk to his bachelor abode.

"I should think he must be lonesome, poor man, with only that no-account
housekeeper to home," said the old woman, as she also rose, with pain,
of which she resolutely gave no evidence. Her poor old joints seemed to
stab her, but she fought off the pain angrily. Instead she pitied with
meaning John Mangam.

"It must be pretty hard for him," assented Mrs. Lynn. She also thought
it would be a very good thing for her daughter to marry John Mangam.

Sarah said nothing. The old woman, after saying, like the others, that
she guessed she must be goin', crept off alone across the field to her
little house. She would have resented any offer to accompany her, and
Mrs. Lynn arose to enter the house.

"Well, be you goin' to set there all night?" she asked, rather sharply,
of Sarah. It had seemed to her that Sarah might have made a little
effort to entertain Mr. John Mangam.