Mrs. Wicket nodded her head.  “Yes,” she said, “it’s a blessing to feel pity.  It makes you strong, like.  The humble heart is a power of strength.”

And she went back to Juliet, who had begun to cough again.  Left to himself, Mr. Jeminy regarded the gate-post with a thoughtful air.  But inwardly he was very much pleased with himself.

That year they kept harvest home before September was fairly done.  In the meadows the hay, gathered in stacks, shone in the moonlight like little hills of snow; and in the shadows the crickets hopped and sang, repeating with shrill voices, the murmurs of lovers, hidden in the woods.

Anna Barly and her friends watched the moon come up along the road to Adams’ Forge.  In Ezra Adams’ haywagon they were singing the harvest in.  Their voices rolled across the fields in lovely glees, rose in the old, familiar songs, broke into laughter, and died away in whispers.  Thus they renewed their interrupted youth, and celebrated the return of peace.

It was a cold, still night, with dew white as frost over the ground.  Anna, huddled in the hay, could see her breath go out in fog; while the moon, shining in her face, seemed to veil in shadow the forms of her companions—­Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over Brandon Adam’s face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . .  She was chilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky, heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver’s seat, and Thomas, whispering at her side.

“What a grand night.  Clear as a bell.”

“Yes,” said Anna, “It’s lovely.”

She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted to the sky.  Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse, familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky, filled her with longing and regret.  She closed her eyes; was it Noel, there, or Thomas?  It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held, to be hugged to her breast.

“Listen . . . they’re singing Love’s Old Sweet Song.”

The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery, urgent.  She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his.  Then silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why.  The figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a dream.  Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna, over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.

“I could go on like this till the end of time.”

“Could you?”

“I could ride like this forever and ever.”

Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the wagon, now fast, now slow.  “Together?” she asked.  “Like this?”

“That’s what I mean.”