"No," said Hildegarde, "I wouldn't. I'd love you because you are funny and sweet."
She was so very much in earnest that she was bewildered by their laughter.
"You peach!" Sally said. "Merry, did you hear her?"
He had heard, and something fine in him had responded to her earnestness. And her honesty. Even Sally with all her sincerity could not have said a thing like that.
During the evening his eyes were often upon her. And when they reached home, he kept her for a moment with him before they went into the house.
"I want you to see the moon over the Bay. It's rather splendid on a night like this."
The moon hung high above the water, making a wide, golden track, and in that track the molten waves moved restlessly. The wind blew softly with a little whistling sound. Except for that, all the world was still. Then suddenly across the golden radiance of the moon drifted a thin, black shadow, another followed, and another. Steadily, beating strong wings, went the wild geese—so far away that no sound of them reached the watchers on the porch.
"By jinks," Meriweather said, "that's fine. One doesn't often see it."
Hildegarde did not answer. Indeed, she hardly heard him. All that belonged to this new life had dropped away. Again she stood beside Crispin, his strong arm about her; again she was lifted up with him by the exaltation of their high mood; again his voice came to her, "When I see them, I want to follow!"
