But this flower--" In spite of this triumph, it had taken him still another year to prevail over one of his hearers.

True, she had met him after that first triumphant ordination sermon with her black lashes but half-veiling the admiration that shone warm in the gray of her eyes; and his low assurance, "Nance, you _please_ me! Really you do!" as his yellow eyes lingered down her rounded slenderness from summer bonnet to hem of summer gown, rippled her face with a colour she had to laugh away.
Yet she had been obstinate and wondering.

There had to be a year in which she knew that one she dreamed of would come back; another in which she believed he might; another in which she hoped he would--and yet another in which she realised that dreams and hopes alike were vain--vain, though there were times in which she seemed to feel again the tingling life of that last hand-clasp; times when he called to her; times when she had the absurd consciousness that his mind pressed upon hers.

There had been so many years and so much wonder--and no one came.
It had been foolish indeed.

And then came a year of wondering at the other.