past her eyes, also in search. We said nothing. The sea was still. There was not a sound from the bare brown land between us and the mesa.
Suddenly, out on the bare brown land, a meadowlark sent up her little bubbling fountain of song—once, twice. Then she was still. We smiled at each other as the echoes of the bird's good-night reverberated through our nerves and died away. Then the silence fell, deeper than before. It was delightful at first. Then it became oppressive, exciting. It clutched at one's heart and made it thud. Or was it something else—something that had stolen up, in the silence, between us?
Cornelia broke the spell. "Did you hear it?" she asked.
"The meadowlark, do you mean?"
"No. Of course you heard that!"
"What else—should I have heard?"
"Well, never mind that just now. I want you to tell me something else. How much—how much did the children tell you?"
"Everything."
"I hoped they would; I hoped they would."
"Then it's true, Cornelia?"
"What is true?"
"That you and Oliver have separated."
