THE Blue Window framed tonight a gold-powdered sky. Hildegarde, ascending the stairway after the talk with Crispin which had followed her dramatic announcement of departure, knelt on the window-seat and looked out. Here was sanctuary—but it was some time before the serene beauty of the night stilled the tumult within her.
She held a far-flung argument with the quiet star which burned bright against the darkness.
"Mother, I am going back."
Then, as if in answer to some protest from the quiet star: "You went, Mother. And if I stayed, I should be sharing things that are dishonest."
Again, after a long pause: "Oh, of course I love him. Who wouldn't? But I can't stay."
Crispin had gone to his room to write a letter. She had talked over her plans with him. He had begged her to marry him. But she had been firm.
"I won't promise anything. I can live with Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine. It won't be so bad, with you coming on for week-ends."
It would be heaven, he told her, to see her so often, to know that she was close at hand. Yet he hated to have her at the farm with its hardships. If she would
