On that June afternoon Robert Courtney went to visit a sick child on an outlying farm, and turning toward home, he came upon a dim but familiar path leading over the crest of a hill. He paused for a moment, turned sharply from the country road, and walked slowly up and up by an easy ascent, absorbed in thought. The world's hurt had struck anew into his soul, as he stood beside that deformed, suffering bit of humanity, with its beautiful face, luminous eyes and patient smile. The old torturing question, "Why?" turned again and again the sword within him, until he reached the bend in the path that led to Barnwell village, lying in the valley below. He paused to take a deep breath, lifted his face and whispered: "I do not know. God does, and that is enough."
He went on slowly, pausing with a start of surprise as he came within sight of the old oak, and Doris at its foot. She had wakened refreshed from her light sleep, but was so absorbed in thought that she did not hear his approach. He watched her for a moment - the Dryad of her sheltering tree. Stray gleams of sunshine filtered through its leaves and settled on her clustering curls. Her hands lay lightly in her lap, until she suddenly sat erect, stretching out her arms and folding them on her breast, as if she gathered into her heart all the beauty and the brooding peace about her as her own possession.
"Dear little girl," thought Robert, "how she has suffered, and how lovely she has grown."
He kicked a stone noisily from the path, another and another, and, going a few steps nearer, met her astonished eyes.
"Robert Courtney, you here?"
"Yes, Doris; why not? Have you preempted the hill, the oak tree and everything you see? May I sit down?"
"Of course you may. This old place is as comfortable as a couch, and I fell asleep. Everything was too beautiful and restful when I waked to leave. But it must be six o'clock." She sprang to her feet. "What will mother think has happened to me? I must hurry home."
"It is after six," said Robert, consulting his watch. "Shall I walk down with you?"
"Yes, if you like. I seem to have no sense of passing time, and must need somebody to take care of me."
They went on in silence, through a pasture, fragrant with clumps of sweet fern and tangles of wild roses here and there.
"This always mabes me think of Huckleberry Hill at home," said Doris at last. "I can almost hear the tink-tink of our pails as we three children went berrying."
She stumbled over a rough stone.
"You do need some one to take care of you, Doris," said Robert quietly, as he saved her from falling; "will you let me do it, so long as we both shall live? Before God," he exclaimed, with sudden passion and with outstretched hands, "I believe, and have long believed, that you are mine - mine - that you never have been and never can be another's. Doris, Doris, my love -"
She lifted her face, her violet eyes, clear and sweet, looking frankly into his. She held out her hands with a charming gesture of surrender, and answered quietly, though with trembling lips:
"Robert, I will. I have known it, too, ever since, ever since -"
Her voice failed her, and she hid her burning face in the strong arms waiting to receive her.
And so, after tumult and sorrow, after much tossing to and fro in blinding storm, they came into love's harbor, land-locked and secure. Whatever might befall, these waters would hold safe anchorage. The passion that must rush on to swift possession Robert had, with manly effort, put behind him, and with the infinitely stronger passion, that can wait for its fruition, had bided his time. He realized now that he had received his exceeding great reward in Doris's freely given love.
"Will you give her to me, mother?" asked Robert as they met Mrs. Banner at the door, where she was watching for Doris.
"With great gladness, my son," she answered tenderly. "I did not think anything could make me so happy again."
The mother bent over Doris, before she slept that night, with the child's loving arms about her neck.
"Do you think Mark knows, mother?"
"I believe it, dear, and that he is happier for the knowing."
"I wish I could tell him. I am afraid he went away with a heartache about me."
"Yes, darling; but it was only for your sake; don't be troubled about that. He wished that you might love Robert."
"He wants me to be glad, I know; and, oh, mother, I am so happy, so rested. It is very different from the - other experience. I understand now how Keren is able to bear her sorrow so bravely. It is the infinite joy of loving and being loved."
There was no reason for delaying the marriage, and Robert begged for an early day.
"Keren," said Doris, "you will take charge of the school? I am sure you can get a competent assistant from Mt. Holyoke. I will go before the committee at once. I know they will be glad to have you as principal."
"Yes, Doris," answered Keren, with her usual simple directness. "I cannot take your place, but I will do the best I can."
"You will take your own place, dear, just as large a one as mine, and you will fill it just as efficiently. I believe that in the end you will do better than I have done, my brave sister."
She could not trust herself to say more, and hastily left the room. The Female Academy closed another successful year with exercises of more than ordinary interest. Doris and Keren led a procession of white-robed damsels, fluttering with ribbons and curls, from the schoolroom to the Congregational Church. They sang, recited and read essays before an admiring audience of friends and relatives. The pastor, Robert Courtney, made a short address, and Doris, calling to the front a class of five young ladies, who had completed the course of study, presented them with the diploma of the school in a few well-chosen words. A member of the committee, pompous but sympathetic, thanked the teachers for their efforts and announced that the Female Academy would be continued, if under changed conditions, with not less efficiency.
The Banner house was to be closed for the school vacation and the family were making ready for their journey to the farm.
"Doris," said Keren, "I want you to do something for me. Will you?"
"Anything, sister mine," answered Doris brightly.
Keren left the room and returned with a large box.
"A little less than a year ago I was making my wedding-gown. You know it was never finished," she went on, with a far-away look in her eyes. "See, Doris." She lifted folds of shimmering white and held them in the light. "Will you wear it on your wedding day? I know Mark would like it; don't refuse me."
"I can refuse you nothing, Keren," answered Doris gently, her eyes blind with tears. "Mark gave us a precious gift when he gave us you."