For some reason, when she woke the next morning, Lydia half hoped that the soft patter against her window was of rain drops.  But it was the wind-tossed maple leaves, whose scarlet and gold were drifting deep on the lawn and garden.  There never was a more brilliant October day than this, and at three o’clock, Lydia and Kent set off down the road to the Willows.

Lizzie watched them from the living-room window.  “They’re a handsome pair, Amos,” she said.  “Now aren’t they?”

Amos looked up from his Sunday paper with a start.  “Those young ones aren’t getting sentimental, are they, Liz?” he asked, sharply.

“Well,” returned Lizzie, “they might be, very naturally, seeing they’re both young and good-looking.  For the land sake!  Don’t you expect Lydia to find her young man and settle down?”

“No, I don’t!” snapped Amos.  “There isn’t a man on earth good enough for Lydia.  I don’t want her to marry.  I’ll take care of her.”

“Humph!  Nothing selfish about a man, is there?” muttered Lizzie.

Kent and Lydia strolled along the leafy road, with the tang of the autumn in their nostrils, and the blue gleam of the lake in their eyes.  It was only a half mile to the Willows and as they turned in, Kent took Lydia’s hand and drew it through his arm.

“Look,” he said, “I believe there is even a little left of our cave, after all this time.  What a rough little devil I was in those days.  And yet, even then, Lyd, I believe I had an idea of trying to take care of you.”

“You were not a rough little devil!” exclaimed Lydia, indignantly.  “You were a dear!  I can never forget what you did for me, when little Patience died.”

“I was a selfish brute in lots of ways afterward, though,” said Kent, moodily.  “I didn’t have sense enough to appreciate you, to realize—­yet, I did in a way.  Remember our talks up at camp?  Then, of course, we never shall agree on the Indian question.  But what does that amount to?”

Kent dropped Lydia’s hand and faced her.  “Lydia, do you care for me—­care for me enough to marry me?”

Lydia turned pale.  Something in her heart began to sing.  Something in her brain began to stir, uncomfortably.

“Oh, Kent,” she began, breathlessly, then paused and the two looked deep into each other’s eyes.

“Lydia!  Lydia!!  I need you so!” cried Kent.  “You are such a dear, such a pal, so pretty, so sweet—­and I need you so!  Won’t you marry me, Lydia?”

He seized both her hands and held them against his cheeks.

“I’ve always loved you dearly, Kent, and yet,” faltered Lydia, “and yet, somehow, I don’t think we’d ever make each other happy.”

“Not make each other happy!  I’d like to know why not!  Just try me, Lydia!  Try me!”

Kent’s charming face was glowing.  Into Lydia’s contralto voice crept the note that had belonged to little Patience’s day.