The Choir Invisible

She was at work in the garden: he had long ago noted that she never idled.

He approached the fence and leaned on it as when they had last talked

together; but his big Jacobin hat was pulled down over his eyes now. He was

afraid of his own voice, afraid of the sound of his knuckles, so that when

at last he had rapped on the fence, he hoped that she had not heard, so that

he could go away.

"Knock louder," she called out from under her bonnet. "I'm not sure that I

heard you."

How sunny her voice was, how pure and sweet and remote from any suspicion of

hovering harm! It unshackled him as from a dreadful nightmare.

He broke into his old laugh--the first time since he had stood there

before--and frankly took off his hat.

"How did you know who it was? You saw me coming!"

"Did I? I don't like to contradict a stranger."

"Am I a stranger?"

"What makes a stranger? How long has it been since you were here?"

"A lifetime," he replied gravely.

"You are still living! Will you walk into my parlour?"

"Will you meet me at the door?"

It was so pleasant to seem gay, to say nothing, be nothing! She came

quietly over to the fence and gave him her hand with a little laugh."

"You have holiday of Saturdays. I have not, you see. But I can take a

recess: come in. You are looking well! Wounds agree with you."

He went trembling round to the gate, passed in, and they sat down on the

bench.

"How things grow in this soil," she said pointing to the garden. "It has

only been five or six weeks since you were here. Do you remember? I was

planting the seed: now look at the plants!"

"I, too, was sowing that afternoon," he replied musingly. "But my harvest

ripened before yours; I have already reaped it."

"What's that you are saying about me?" called out a hard, smooth voice from

over the fence at their back. "I don't like to miss anything!"

Amy had a piece of sewing, which she proceeded to spread upon the fence.

"Will you show me about this, Aunt Jessica?"

She greeted John without embarrassment or discernible remembrance of their

last meeting. Her fine blond hair was frowsy and a button was missing at the

throat of her dress. (Some women begin to let themselves go after marriage;

some after the promise of marriage.) There were cake-crumbs also in one

corner of her mouth.

"These are some of my wedding clothes," she said to him prettily. "Aren't

they fine?"