of the route in Medfield, where, beyond suburban uglinesses, there were
glimpses of green fields.

Once as the car rushed along, screeching around curves and banging over
switches, Eleanor said, "I've come out here four times a week for four
years, to Fern Hill."

And Maurice said: "Well, _that's_ over! No more school-teaching for
you!"

She smiled, then sighed. "I'll miss my little people," she said.

But except for that they were silent. When they left the car, he led the
way across a meadow to the bank of the river; there they sat down under
the locust, and he kissed her, quietly; then, for a while, still dumb
with the wonder of themselves, they watched the sky, and the sailing
white clouds, and the river--flowing--flowing; and each other.

"Fifty-four minutes," he had said....

So they sat there and planned for the endless future--the "fifty-four
years."

"When we have our golden wedding," he said, "we shall come back here,
and sit under this tree--" He paused; he would be--let's see: nineteen,
plus fifty, makes sixty-nine. He did not go farther with his mental
arithmetic, and say thirty-nine plus fifty; he was thinking only of
himself, not of her. In fifty years he would be, he told himself, an old
man.