So, thus held by her duties of ministration, it was quite an hour
later that Rose Mary came out of the house, which was dark and
sleep-quiet, and found Everett still sitting on the front steps
smoking and--waiting.

"Tired?" he asked as she sank down on to the step beside him and
leaned her dark head back against one of the posts that supported the
mass of honeysuckle vine.

"Not much--and a heap happy," she answered, looking up at him with
reflected stars in her long-lashed blue eyes. "Wasn't it a lovely
party?"

"Yes," answered Everett slowly as he watched the smoke curl up from
his cigar and blow in the soft little night wind across toward Rose
Mary; "yes, it was a nice party. I seriously doubt if anywhere on any
of the known continents there could have been one just like it pulled
off by any people of any nation. It was unique--in sentiment and
execution; I'm duly grateful for having been a guest--even part
honoree."

"I always think of old people as being the soft shadows that sturdy
little children cast on the wall. They are a part of the day and
sunshine, but just protected by the young folks that come between them
and the direct rays. They are strangely like flowers, too, with their
quaint fragrance. Aunt Viney is my tall purple flag, but Aunt Amandy
is my bed of white cinnamon pinks. I--I want to keep them in bloom for
always. I can't let myself think--that I can't." Rose Mary's voice
trembled into a laugh as she caught a trailing wisp of honeysuckle and
pressed a bunch of its buds to her lips.