forms of her
companions--Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over Brandon
Adam's face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . . She was
chilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky,
heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver's
seat, and Thomas, whispering at her side.

"What a grand night. Clear as a bell."

"Yes," said Anna, "It's lovely."

She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted
to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse,
familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky,
filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel,
there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held,
to be hugged to her breast.

"Listen . . . they're singing Love's Old Sweet Song."

The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery,
urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of
her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then
silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The
figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a
dream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna,
over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in
the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.

"I could go on like this till the end of time."

"Could you?"

"I could ride like this forever and ever."

Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the
wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"

"That's what I mean."

His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I
know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in
the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference?
"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my
breath; there's a regular fog of it."

"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about
her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And
at that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one,
wanted some one to belong to her . . .

"Thanks, Tom--dear."

The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below the
road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver
in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with
Barly's lam