Chap­ter VI – A Leaf from Christi­na’s Psalm-Book begins with a morn­ing stirred not by habit, but by an emo­tion so ten­der it star­tles even Kirstie her­self. Awak­en­ing with a calm smile before the house­hold ris­es, she greets the day as though it were car­ry­ing a secret just for her. The usu­al grog­gi­ness is replaced with clar­i­ty and joy, sur­pris­ing her young maid, who remarks with curios­i­ty. Kirstie’s reply, light-heart­ed but heart­felt, reflects a deep con­tent­ment she can’t quite explain aloud. Though she ris­es with eager­ness, habit and the qui­et fear of being observed too close­ly make her pause. She masks her ener­gy behind routines—combing her hair slow­ly, choos­ing attire with care, and mov­ing with the prac­ticed restraint of a girl deter­mined not to reveal too much. Yet beneath it all, her heart moves quick­ly, already rac­ing toward a moment not yet named but silent­ly await­ed.

Down­stairs, the sub­tle change in her demeanor spreads like sun­light through a win­dow. The oth­er girls notice it first—not just in her lighter step, but in her silences, which car­ry more warmth than before. Laugh­ter fol­lows her in whis­pers, not mock­ing but cel­e­bra­to­ry, as if every­one had caught sight of some­thing del­i­cate and beau­ti­ful unfold­ing. Kirstie says lit­tle, but her mod­est glances and flushed cheeks say more than words could. The meal becomes a stage where every­one per­forms their part, yet all eyes return to her, qui­et­ly won­der­ing about the invis­i­ble thread of joy woven into her move­ments. Though she tries to keep it hid­den, love, like music, has its own way of being felt. She walks not above oth­ers, but apart—set slight­ly aside by the radi­ance of her hope, and by the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty that comes from qui­et­ly wait­ing for some­thing more. In her, inno­cence and resolve walk hand in hand.

That day, hours drift by not in rou­tine, but in sus­pend­ed antic­i­pa­tion. The tasks she per­forms are done gen­tly, as though each move­ment must not dis­turb the thread of won­der she is hold­ing onto. By mid-after­noon, with embroi­dery in hand as her gen­tle dis­guise, she slips away to a favorite spot—one that offers a high view of the glen and the path that threads across the hills. It is here, with the world spread qui­et­ly before her, that Kirstie lets her thoughts rise. The wind brush­es her cheek like a promise, and the open stretch of sky makes space for a hope too bold to name aloud. Her eyes linger on famil­iar landmarks—the stone, the wind­ing trail, the dis­tance that seems close when filled with long­ing. She waits not with cer­tain­ty, but with faith in the rep­e­ti­tion of some­thing mean­ing­ful.

When Archie appears, it is not as a sur­prise, but as an answer. There is no orches­tra­tion to his arrival—just the steady climb, the tip­ping of his hat, and the short breath of some­one who didn’t stop to hes­i­tate. Kirstie watch­es his approach with a still­ness that comes not from indif­fer­ence but from awe. Each step he takes toward her makes the world small­er and more inti­mate, until it feels like noth­ing exists beyond that hill. He says lit­tle when he arrives, and yet his pres­ence speaks of some­thing shared, some­thing under­stood with­out hav­ing to be explained. He doesn’t bring promis­es, but he brings him­self, and that is what mat­ters most. In his every ges­ture, there is the qui­et mes­sage that her wait­ing wasn’t in vain.

The beau­ty of what pass­es between them lies in its restraint. Nei­ther rush­es the moment. They speak as those who under­stand that close­ness does not always require confession—that often, the deep­est affec­tion is felt in what remains unspo­ken. Kirstie does not ask for more than he gives; she sim­ply receives it, and in doing so, makes space for some­thing del­i­cate to grow. The path he climbed becomes symbolic—a choice made, an effort tak­en, a con­nec­tion reaf­firmed. For a moment, the world stands still. Around them, the ordi­nary land­scape becomes enchant­ed by the pres­ence of some­thing ten­der, shared only between two hearts brave enough to meet in still­ness.

This chap­ter doesn’t need grand dec­la­ra­tions to leave a last­ing impres­sion. It lingers with the qui­et strength of a heart­beat, steady and sure. In Kirstie’s wait­ing and Archie’s return, there is a truth about the ear­ly steps of love: that what begins with silence often deep­ens into some­thing that words can­not ful­ly hold. They do not yet know what will fol­low, but they both rec­og­nize what has begun. And in that recog­ni­tion, a kind of promise forms—not writ­ten or spo­ken, but car­ried in their pres­ence, their patience, and the breath­less beau­ty of being seen and cho­sen with­out demand.