would be a journey packed full of events. A voyage with the sails full set.
They were eager to show him their appreciation of his friendliness. They brought out things which had belonged to Hildegarde—an album with photographs, a drawing or two she had done as a child. They took him into the seldom-used parlor that he might see a boat in a bottle which had delighted her young eyes.
He liked the photographs best. There was one taken with her mother, when Hildegarde was ten. Even then there was the sweep of smoky hair across Hildegarde's forehead, and the straight clear glance like her mother's. He asked for it, and they gave it to him.
When he reached home, he put the picture on his desk. The house was still, his father and mother in bed. They had left a light for him in the hall.
He was restless and not ready for sleep. He decided to take a walk. When he went out, the wind was blowing, and it was very cold. The night was lighted by the moon, spectral among the ragged clouds. He followed the way which led to the hill where he and Hildegarde had watched the flying geese. As he went along he thought of the old aunts and of their kindness to him. He had been amazed that he could speak to them so freely, but there had been something in their hard and homely faces which had touched him. It was as if the loneliness which had come to them in the knowledge of Hildegarde's change of plan had echoed in his heart and had brought the three of them close together.
In spite of his loneliness, however, he felt no sense
