"The only kind of cap you'll ever wear," Meriweather told her, "is a liberty cap."
She shrugged. "That shows how little you know me, Merry," and was presently laughing and roaring with the rest of them.
And outside in the Christmas sky a star shone, and in the throbbing darkness under young Juliet's window, her lover waited.
Except for the dim light in Hildegarde's room, there was only the lamp in the hall left to guide the returning revelers. As she came out of the door, the two dogs followed her—not making a sound. They seemed to grasp the secrecy of the adventure and the need for silence.
As she and Crispin walked along, Hildegarde said, "I suppose I should have told Daddy."
"Why tell anybody?" Crispin demanded. "This is our hour, isn't it?" He took her hand and tucked it within his arm. "I wish I were running away with you."
She laughed. "But where could we go?"
"To a little house deep in a wood, with a big fire blazing on the hearth, and angels spreading their wings over the roof."
"But there isn't such a house—anywhere."
"There is. I am sure. For every pair of lovers. But not all of them find it. Most of them crowd their romances between stone walls in efficiency apartments."
She loved to hear him talk like that. To Crispin's imagination a primrose by the river's brim was not merely a yellow primrose. He believed it, rather, a golden star, and had a way of making others believe.
