Quite different from the meeting of the lovers was that which occurred when Old Cy reached Peaceful Valley. There were no heroics, no falling upon one another’s necks, no tears. Just a “Hullo, Cyrus!” “Hullo, Judson!” as these two brothers clasped hands, and forty years were bridged.

Aunt Mandy, however, showed more emotion, for when Old Cy rather awkwardly stooped to kiss her, the long ago of Sister Abby’s sorrow welled up in her heart, and the tears came.

That evening’s reunion, with its two life histories to be exchanged, did not close until the tall clock had ticked time into the wee, small hours.

All of Old Cy’s almost marvellous adventures had to be told by him, and not the least interesting were the last few years at the wilderness home of the hermit. Chip’s entry into it and her history formed another chapter fully as thrilling, with Uncle Jud’s rescue of her for a dÉnouement.The most pathetic feature of this intermingled history–the years while sweet Abby Grey waited and watched for her lover–was left untold. Only once was it referred to by Aunt Mandy, in an indirect way; but the quick lowering of Old Cy’s eyes and the shadow that overspread his face, checked her at once. Almost intuitively she realized its unwisdom, and that it was a sorrow best not referred to.

Old Cy evidently felt it a subject to avoid, and not until the next day did he even ask how Aunt Abby looked or what had been her life experiences. A little of this reticence wore away in due time, however, and then Aunt Mandy once more referred to her sister.

“I kinder feel you blame Abby somehow, Cyrus, the way you act,” she said, “and yet thar ain’t no cause for it. She’d waited ’most seven years. We’d all given you up for dead, and life in Christmas Cove wa’n’t promisin’ much for Abby.”

“I don’t blame her a mite,” Old Cy answered quickly, “an’ no need o’ yer thinkin’ so. I don’t blame no woman fer makin’ the best shift they kin. They’ve got to hev a home ’n’ pertecter, bless ’em, or be nobody in this world. Comin’ here and findin’ how things are, sorter makes me realize how much I’ve missed in life, though, an’ how much sorrer I’ve had to outgrow. I don’t lay up nothin’ ’gainst Abby, not fer a minit. Only I hated to hev ye tell me what I knew ye’d hev to, that fust night.”

“But you’re goin’ to see her, ain’t ye, Cyrus?” Aunt Mandy asked anxiously. “Ye won’t shame her by not goin’, will ye?”

“Wal, mebbe,” he answered slowly, and after a long pause. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her knowin’ly. I callate I’ve done more grievin’n she has, though, ten times over, an’ seein’ her now’s a good deal like openin’ an old tomb–a sorter invitin’ ghosts o’ old heartaches to step out. Abby’s outgrowed the old times, ’n’ I’m sartin, too, won’t be the happier by seein’ me ag’in. I may be wrong, but I’ve a notion she’ll sorter hate to see me. ’Twas to keep her from feelin’ ’shamed ’n’ miserable ’n’ spoilin’ her life, I’ve never let her nor nobody that knew her find out I was alive. I’m doubtin’ I would now if she hadn’t larned it from Chip.”

He relented a little from this strange and almost cruel whim a week later, and after visiting the Riggsville store and obtaining what really amounted to a disguise in new garments, he announced his plans.

“I’ve got to see Chip,” he said, “an’ see how she ’n’ Ray’s gittin’ on. I’ve got to see Abby, I s’pose. I want to, an’ I don’t want to, both in one. Then ag’in, these two young folks–Chip ’n’ the boy–hev sorter got tangled up in my feelin’s, ’n’ I can’t rest content till I’ve seen ’em settled in life. I’m goin’ to Christmas Cove fer a day. Then back here till they hitch up, ’n’ then–wal, then mebbe I’d better go to the woods ag’in. I ain’t fitted by natur fer dressed-up folks.”

No opposition to this unseemly outcome was made by Uncle Jud or Aunt Mandy. They knew, or hoped, the leaven of bygone memories and association would change the hermit-like impulse of Old Cy, and all in good time a better ending of his life would seem possible to him. To argue it now was apparently useless. A man so set in his ideas as to remain a homeless wanderer for almost a lifetime, was not to be changed in a month, or perhaps in a year.

Neither did Old Cy seem in a hurry to visit Christmas Cove.

“I don’t look nat’ral or feel nat’ral in them new clothes,” he said to Aunt Mandy one day, “an’ while I want to see Abby, I’ve lived in the woods so long I’m sorter ’shamed to go ’mongst respectable people. Then I look like one o’ them wooden men dressed up in a store winder with that new rig on, an’ jest know folks’ll all be laughin’ at me. I’ve got to go, I callate, but I’d like to make the trip in a cage. I’m sartin sure Abby’ll laugh at me arterwards.” From which it may be seen how hard it was for Old Cy to fit himself into civilized life once more.

He nerved himself for the trip to Christmas Cove in a few days, however, and how he met and renewed acquaintance with his old-time sweetheart shall be told in his own words.

“Abby hain’t changed near so much as I callated,” he said on his return; “a leetle fuller in figger, but jest the same easy-spoken, sweet sorter woman I always knew she’d be. She was ’lone when I called, an’ fer a minit arter we shook hands neither on us could speak ag’in. Then she kinder bit her lip ’n’ swallered her feelin’s, keepin’ her face turned away, an’ then we sot down ’n’ begun talkin’. It was techin’, too, the way she acted, fer she kept tryin’ to smile, ’n’ all the while the tears kept startin’. It was like one o’ them summer days when the rain patters while the sun is shinin’. I don’t think she noticed my clothes much, either, an’ we sot up till ’most midnight talkin’ over old times. It all turned out ’bout the way I ’spected–a sorter funeral o’ old hopes with us two fer mourners. She’s powerful considerate, too, Abby is, for all the time we was talkin’ she never once spoke o’ Cap’n Bemis, ’n’ I didn’t. It was jest ez if we started in whar we left off, ’n’ skippin’ the gap between. She ’lowed she hoped she’d see me soon ag’in, that she felt like a mother to Chip; an’ when I bid her good-bye, she kinder choked once more.

“I didn’t see much o’ Chip, either, which sorter hurt me. Take it all in all, my visit thar upsot me more’n I callated, ’n’ I guess when Chip’s settled, I’d best go to the woods ’n’ forgit all that’s past. My life’s been a failure, anyway.”

And Old Cy was right; but it was grim and merciless Fate that made it so, and for that he was not responsible.

Love in youth is a sweet song of joy and hope and promise. But love that spans a lifetime, that reaches and caresses our heartstrings once again as we enter the final shadows, has only the pathos of parting and the tender chords of almost forgotten melodies in it. Vainly do we strive to enter the enchanted garden once more. Vainly do our heart throbs beat against its adamant walls. Vainly do we hope to catch just one more of the old bygone thrills. It is useless, for none can live life over, and once age has locked the portals of youth and fervor, they are never opened again.