He did not answer.

“Will you, Willie?”

“Oh, all right!” he said.

This contented her, and she seated herself so quietly upon the floor, just inside the door, that he ceased to be aware of her, thinking she had gone away.  He sat staring vacantly into the darkness, which had come on with that abruptness which begins to be noticeable in September.  His elbows were on his knees, and his body was sunk far forward in an attitude of desolation.

The small noises of the town—­that town so empty to-night—­fell upon his ears mockingly.  It seemed to him incredible that so hollow a town could go about its nightly affairs just as usual.  A man and a woman, going by, laughed loudly at something the man had said:  the sound of their laughter was horrid to William.  And from a great distance from far out in the country—­there came the faint, long-drawn whistle of an engine.

That was the sorrowfulest sound of all to William.  His lonely mind’s eye sought the vasty spaces to the east; crossed prairie, and river, and hill, to where a long train whizzed onward through the dark—­farther and farther and farther away.  William uttered a sigh, so hoarse, so deep from the tombs, so prolonged, that Jane, who had been relaxing herself at full length upon the floor, sat up straight with a jerk.

But she was wise enough not to speak.

Now the full moon came masquerading among the branches of the shade-trees; it came in the likeness of an enormous football, gloriously orange.  Gorgeously it rose higher, cleared the trees, and resumed its wonted impersonation of a silver disk.  Here was another mockery:  What was the use of a moon now?

Its use appeared straightway.

In direct coincidence with that rising moon, there came from a little distance down the street the sound of a young male voice, singing.  It was not a musical voice, yet sufficiently loud; and it knew only a portion of the words and air it sought to render, but, upon completing the portion it did know, it instantly began again, and sang that portion over and over with brightest patience.  So the voice approached the residence of the Baxter family, singing what the shades of night gave courage to sing—­instead of whistle, as in the abashing sunlight.

Thus: 

“My countree, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, ’tis—­”

Jane spoke unconsciously.  “It’s Freddie,” she said.

William leaped to his feet; this was something he could not bear!  He made a bloodthirsty dash toward the gate, which the singer was just in the act of passing.

“You get out O’ here!” William roared.

The song stopped.  Freddie Banks fled like a rag on the wind.