Does it not make an undying memory and bring to the face of age, long afterward, the smile of joy and gratitude?
The next word?
What should it be?
Both wondered and held their tongues for fear--one can not help thinking--and really they had little need of words.

The peal of a hermit thrush filled the silence with its golden, largo chime and overtones and died away and rang out again and again.

That voice spoke for them far better than either could have spoken, and they were content.
"There was no voice on land or sea so fit for the hour and the ears that heard it," she wrote, long afterward, in a letter.
They must have felt it in the longing of their own hearts and, perhaps, even a touch of the pathos in the years to come.

They rode on in silence, feeling now the beauty of the green woods.

It had become a magic garden full of new and wonderful things.