But Abbie was too bashful to tell her that already she had an opportunity to go to New York to study. Her praise had its influence in Abbie’s decision. If her voice was really as good as Mrs. Whitman thought—— And so, on the day in April that Lee surrendered, Abbie Mackenzie surrendered, too. She wrote the letter to Ed Matthews that she would marry him. When she had sent it over to town to be mailed she went to her old grassy knoll in the clearing to sing. But she did not seem to sing well. Something seemed lacking. The melody sounded flat, unlovely, like a song from which the soul had fled.

In the weeks that followed, Abbie felt restless, nervous and a little sad. She told herself that it was on account of Lincoln’s assassination. And indeed, some of it was, for the whole settlement mourned. But not all of her mood was due to the President’s tragic death.

On a day in May, with the honey-locusts all in bloom, she stood at the door of the schoolhouse, and watched the train from the east shriek its way across Grandpa Deal’s newly planted corn-fields. She washed her blackboard, set her desk to rights, locked the schoolhouse, and started home. And, quite suddenly, she saw some one coming down the lane. Abbie stood still, her heart pounding tumultuously with the uncertainty of the figure’s identity. The world was a lovely painting of sunshine, blue skies, honey-locusts, bees on the blossoms,—a palpitating, throbbing world of spring.

Will Deal in his blue soldier’s suit was coming toward her. She could not take her eyes from his face. He was smiling, questioningly, a little quizzically, and with something that was infinitely more tender. He slipped the knapsack from his back and held out his arms. Swiftly, lightly, Abbie went to him.

“Oh, Will, don’t let me, . . . don’t let me do it,” Abbie began sobbing a little wildly, almost hysterically. For two years Abbie Mackenzie had not shed a tear and now she was crying wildly in Will Deal’s arms. Will held her close, smoothed her hair back from her creamy-white forehead.

“Do what, Abbie-girl?” He was all gentleness, all desirous of understanding.

“Marry Ed Matthews.”

Will caught her fiercely, held her closer, kissed her red lips, laid his face to her cheek that was like Mayflower petals. And Abbie thought of ships that come home to the harbor.

“I should say I won’t. He could buy me in the draft . . . but he can’t buy my Abbie.”

“I was afraid all the time, Will.”

Will held her close,—smoothed her red-brown hair.

“Afraid of what, Abbie-girl?”

“I don’t know. Just afraid.”

“You’re not afraid with me?”

“Not with you, Will. Why is that?”

“Because I love you and you love me.”

“Yes, that’s it . . . and I’m not afraid.”

“Of life with me, Abbie-girl?”

“Not of anything, Will, with you.”

“And you’ll always love me?”