IT was on Thanksgiving afternoon that Crispin had a letter from Hildegarde. He was home for the holidays, had been to church that morning, had shared the thankful feast with his parents, and all the time there had been the thought that lying there in the post-office might be a letter from his love. He had not gone for it earlier in the day, because he had wanted to taste the full savor of it when he was alone. He wanted to read it in some quiet spot where he and Hildegarde had been together, and have her again with him in spirit.
So he turned from the post-office and followed a path which led along the way he had walked with Hildegarde on the day of her mother's funeral. He faced the west, and the trees of the grove as he passed through were black against the flaming clouds which swept the heavens like a conflagration. Crispin felt a sense of great exaltation as he walked in the glory of that flaming light with Hildegarde's letter in his pocket.
He ascended at last the hill where he had stood with her to watch the flying geese. He looked off again toward the south. She was there, far beyond his gaze, but tied to him still by the past which they had shared with each other and with Hildegarde's mother.
