ld if they could. And when a bit of a chap from God knows
where comes along, and he's found sitting in there like her lord and
master...."

"And what's that to you?" Olof stepped forward threateningly.

"Quiet, lad, you've no call to shout," went on the other calmly. "I'm
not meaning to quarrel with you. We've known that girl, I say, since
we were youngsters together, and you're a stranger here. And it's
like to do her harm. Leave her alone, I say, and don't go making her
a byword in folk's mouths, for the sake of one that comes and goes so
light and easy as you."

"Stranger, you say?" Olof crossed his arms defiantly. "You know who
I am well enough. And you're the men to talk of a girl's honour to
me--you that hang about outside her window at night--a nice lot to
protect her! Mark my words, the lot of you. I go where I please, if
'twas to a princess in a palace. And I'll go the way I went last night
as long as I'm here in the place. And as sure as I stand here, if one
of you shows his head outside that window, or dares to say a coarse
word--ay, or so much as a look to hurt her, I'll thrash him till he
can't stand on his feet."

He turned and walked proudly up the hill. The men gazed after him
without a word.

AT SUNRISE

"The loveliest hour?" said the fuchsia warmly. "Why, now, give me the
night--'tis the best of all."

"I love it too," answered the balsamine. "Whispering here as we are
now, alone in the dark, only knowing the other is near, only seeing
the gleam of each other's eyes. But the morning, too, is beautiful--at
sunrise, when the dewdrops glisten and the leaves quiver in the
wakening breeze."

"True, that is true. All times are beautiful, all life. The morning,
when the cock crows, and the birds twitter, and the children newly
washed come out to play in the yard. The day, too, when the sunbeams
dance over the floor, and the haymakers come from the fields, with
sweat on their brows, home to the midday meal. And the evening,
when the shadows lengthen, and the cows come home, with their bells
tinkling along the fringe of the wood. But there's nothing can compare
with night--'tis at night we find ourselves, and only then."

"Find ourselves...?" echoed the balsamine. "Ah, yes, I understand...."

"Ourselves--and that faint song of the heart that is never heard in
the bright fullness of day," the fuchsia went on. "All day we belong
to the world, sharing all things in common, having nothing of ou