It was Yerba and Milly returning to the house.
Well, he would not interrupt his reflections by idly watching them;
he would, probably, see a great deal of Yerba that evening, and by
that time he would have come to some conclusion in regard to her.
But he had not taken into consideration her voice, which, always
musical in its Southern intonation and quite audible in the quiet
garden, struck him now as being full of joyous sweetness. Well,
she was certainly very happy--or very thoughtless. She was
actually romping with Milly, and was now evidently being chased
down the rose-alley by that volatile young woman. Then these swift
Camillas apparently neared the house, there was the rapid rustle of
skirts, the skurrying of little feet on the veranda, a stumble, a
mouse-like shriek from Milly, and HER voice, exhausted, dying,
happy, broken with half-hushed laughter, rose to him on the breath
of the jessamine and rose.
Surely she WAS a child, and, if a child, how he had misjudged her!
What if all that he had believed was mature deliberation was only
the innocent imaginings of a romantic girl, all that he had taken
seriously only a school-girl's foolish dream! Instead of combating
it, instead of reasoning with her, instead of trying to interest
her in other things, he had even helped on her illusions.
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