e top of her head;
the hem trailed on the ground, and the sleeves hung limp from below the
elbows. She looked like a very small kitten wrapped up in a very large
baby's blanket. But she did not allow this superfluity, of cloth to
hamper her movements; she sprang into the little back seat, and they
started.

After about half an hour, Crane stopped the car. They were now in the
outskirts of the main town of the district.

"This is where you get out," he said.

Brindlebury obeyed.

"Smithfield paid you your wages, I believe," and Burton plunged into his
own pocket. "Well, there's something extra."

At this, a trembling might have been seen in the right sleeve of the
frieze coat, and the next second, Jane-Ellen's hand emerged from the
cuff, and Crane for the first time experienced the touch of her fingers.
She pushed his hand away from her brother's.

"Don't take that money, Brin," she cried.

Brindlebury's hand dropped.

"No, of course not. What do you take me for?" he said. Then he snatched
off his cap and kissed his sister good-by, and, picking up his bag, he
disappeared into the darkness.

There was a moment's silence between the other two, before Crane said:

"Better get into the front seat. You'll be more comfortable."

Holding up her coat, as if it were a coronation robe, Jane-Ellen stepped
in, sat down, and wrapped it carefully about her knees--a process in
which Crane by the greatest effort of self-control did not join. Again
the brake squeaked and the motor moved forward.

A great deal has been said about silence as a method of spiritual
communion, but few of us, in social situations, at least, have the
courage of these convictions. Most hostesses, on looking about a silent
dinner-table, would be more apt to think that they were watching a
suspension of diplomatic relations, rather than an intercommunication of
souls. But there are moments for all of us when we value silence as
highly as Maeterlinck himself and this, in Burton's opinion, was one of
them.

The moonlight, so much more beautiful and affecting than he had found it
earlier in the evening in the garden, the smooth, quick motion, the damp
night air blowing against his face, made him acutely aware of the
presence at his side of that small, still companion. He felt no need of
speech, nor did he speculate as to her state of mind. He drove, and
enjoyed life deeply.

They were nearly at home again, before he asked:

"Why was it you did not