ughts, he said, "Well . . .
nothing."

"Dear me."

At his hard cluck the wagon swept forward. "You know what I was
thinking," he said.

"Do I?" asked Anna innocently.

"Don't you?"

"Perhaps."

So they went on through the dark, under the trees, to Milford. When
their little world, smelling of harness, came to a halt in front of the
drug store, they descended to quench their thirst with syrup, gas,
milk, and lard. Then, with dreamy faces, they made their way to the
movies.

Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other. For
they do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon the
screen. It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both. "How
beautiful I am," thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish. "And how
elegant to be in love."

Later Anna will say to herself: "Other people's lives are like that."

On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran briskly
through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground,
turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them under
again.

"Ann," he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you care
for me . . . any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with
his long whip.

"Yes, I do, Tom."

"As much as you did?"

"Just as much."

"More, Ann?"

"Maybe."

"Then . . . will you? Say, will you, Ann?"

"I don't know, Tom. Don't ask me. Please."

"But I've got to ask you," he cried.

"Oh, what's the good." And she looked away, to where the faint light
of the lantern fled along beside them, over the trees.

"Is it," he said slowly, "is it no?"

"Well, then--no."

Thomas was silent. At last he asked, "Is it a living man, Ann?"

"No," said Anna.

"Is it a dead man, now?"

Anna moved uneasily. "No, it isn't," she said. "'Tisn't anybody."

But Thomas persisted. "Would it be Noel, if he warn't dead in France?"

"Maybe."

"You're not going to keep on thinking of him, are you?"

"I don't plan to."

"Then--" and Thomas came back to the old question once more, "why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Take me, then?"

"Well," she said vaguely, "I'm too young."

"I'd wait."

"'Twouldn't help any. I want so much, Tom . . . you couldn't give me
all I want."

He said, "What is it I couldn't give you?"

"I don't know, Tom . . . I want what other people have . . .
experiences . . ."

At his bitter laugh, she was filled with pity for herself. "Is it so
fun