Anna called in to her mother, “I’m going for a ride with Tom.”

“Don’t be late,” said her mother.

The two went down the path, and climbed into the buggy; soon the yellow lantern, swung between its wheels, rolled like a star down the road to Milford.

“Why so quiet, Tom?”

“Am I, Ann?”

“Angry?”

“Just thinking . . . so to say.”

“Oh.”  And she began to hum under her breath.

“I was just thinking,” he said again.

Then, solemnly, he added, “about things.”

“About you and me,” he wound up finally.

When she offered him a penny for his thoughts, he said, “Well . . . nothing.”

“Dear me.”

At his hard cluck the wagon swept forward.  “You know what I was thinking,” he said.

“Do I?” asked Anna innocently.

“Don’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

So they went on through the dark, under the trees, to Milford.  When their little world, smelling of harness, came to a halt in front of the drug store, they descended to quench their thirst with syrup, gas, milk, and lard.  Then, with dreamy faces, they made their way to the movies.

Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other.  For they do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon the screen.  It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both.  “How beautiful I am,” thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish.  “And how elegant to be in love.”

Later Anna will say to herself:  “Other people’s lives are like that.”

On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming.  The horse ran briskly through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground, turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them under again.

“Ann,” he said when they were more than half-way home, “don’t you care for me . . . any more?” As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with his long whip.

“Yes, I do, Tom.”

“As much as you did?”

“Just as much.”

“More, Ann?”

“Maybe.”

“Then . . . will you?  Say, will you, Ann?”

“I don’t know, Tom.  Don’t ask me.  Please.”

“But I’ve got to ask you,” he cried.

“Oh, what’s the good.”  And she looked away, to where the faint light of the lantern fled along beside them, over the trees.

“Is it,” he said slowly, “is it no?”

“Well, then—­no.”

Thomas was silent.  At last he asked, “Is it a living man, Ann?”

“No,” said Anna.

“Is it a dead man, now?”

Anna moved uneasily.  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “’Tisn’t anybody.”

But Thomas persisted.  “Would it be Noel, if he warn’t dead in France?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not going to keep on thinking of him, are you?”

“I don’t plan to.”

“Then—­” and Thomas came back to the old question once more, “why not?”