"Yes, if it looks like yours."

"If you don't mind I'll put a mustache on you just--just to look at every
time I think of you."

"When I think of you I put violets in your hair," he said.

He took a step toward her as he spoke and as he did so she started her
pony. A little way off she checked him and said:

"I'm sorry. There are no violets now."

She rode away slowly waving her hand and singing with the joy of a bird
in the springtime:

"My sweetheart, come along
Don't you hear the glad song
As the notes of the nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale
As she sings in the valleys below--
As she sings in the valleys below?"

He stood looking and listening. The song came to him as clear and sweet
as the notes of a vesper bell wandering in miles of silence.

When it had ceased he felt his lip and said: "How slow the time passes!
I'm going to get some shaving soap and a razor."

That evening when Harry was helping Samson with the horses he said: