Henry and Meeks seemed to understand, finally, what the voice said, more from some inner sympathy, which dated back to their youth and chorded with it, than from any actual comprehension of spoken words.
This was what the sweet, divinely foolish girl-voice said: "I don't know what you can see in me to love." There was nothing in the words; it was what any girl might say; it was very trite, but it was a song.

Celestial modesty and pride were in it, and joy which looked at itself and doubted if it were joy.
Then came the man's voice, and that sang a song also foolish and trite, but divine and triumphant and new as every spring.
Henry and Meeks saw gradually, as they listened, afraid to move lest they be heard.

They saw Horace and Rose sitting on the green turf under an apple-tree.

They leaned against its trunk, twisted with years of sun and storm, and the green spread of branches was overhead, and they were all dappled with shade and light like the gold bosses of a shield.

The man's arm was around the girl, and they were looking at each other and seeing this world and that which is to come.
Suddenly Meeks gave Henry's arm another violent clutch.