content. He saw Hildegarde in every room, but most often by the fireplace. His hearth was for her delight. Somebody else had said that, and the phrase pleased him. And the hearth would be for the delight, too, of their friends. Hospitality was such a wonderful thing! There would be his family and Hildegarde's old aunts, the people from Round Hill.
And up from Mount Vernon would come the shades of their distinguished neighbors—riding along the road in a big barouche, walking in the garden. How Hildegarde would love the make-believe on this historic soil!
And far away in the future . . . around the hearth . . . a small and shining troop . . . flitting back and forth in the firelight . . . finding fairy tales in the coals. Far away in the future, yes, but with the door flung wide for them when they came. . . .
It was on the night of the fifth day that he rode to Mount Vernon—a wonderful night with a hunter's moon. The river, stretched inertly like a great golden monster, slept between the low hills. When he came to the great mansion he saw that the windows were dark, yet in imagination he saw them lighted, with strains of music drifting out on the tides of moonlight. Once upon a time, under other moons, boats had come up to this landing place with freight of belles and beaux. Carriages galloping over the rough roads had deposited other loads of beauty and gallantry. In the shadows of the great trees had been this rendezvous and that—he seemed even now to glimpse the flutter of a scarf, the shine of a buckle, to catch a note of low laughter, the throbbing cadence of a passionate avowal.
