Crispin." And the space seemed marked by a lattice, as if a great window stretched from horizon to horizon and from the sky above to the earth that was under it, and out from the window the voice kept crying, "Crispin!" And all through the night he caught the echo of that cry. And the voice was Hildegarde's!
When he waked in the morning he found himself restless, unhappy. He could not shake off the impression of his dream. Yet it was a peach of a morning! The hills were red and green and gold in the autumn sun—there was the incessant chatter of flocking birds, the chrysanthemums in the garden were like bobbing balloons as the breeze swept through them, and up the river came the Norfolk boat, with its hoarse whistle of salutation to passing craft.
He went down to the river for a bath, and came back wrapped in his mackintosh and with his hair tight-curled to find the neighbor from whom he had borrowed the paper at his gate. The neighbor, returning from the cross-roads store which was also the post-office, had brought a special delivery letter for Crispin.
"They asked me to give it to you," he said, "I signed for it."
Crispin said, "Thank you." Tore it open. Read it.
Then he spoke of the beauty of the morning. He said that his bath in the river had been cold but corking. He said . . . "Darling, darling, may I open your door with my silver key?" . . . he said he was going to cook a big breakfast and eat every bit of it. He said that it was kind of the neighbor to invite him over but . . . "Darling, darling, may I open your door with my silver key?" . . . but he thought he
