“See, there she goes; going home to report the success of the meeting to Claude.  Wouldn’t that be a nice way to have your wife coming in?”

“Now, Leonard, if Claude likes it—­”

“Likes it?” Big Leonard drew himself up.  “What can he do, poor kid?  He’s stung!”

II

After Leonard left him, Claude cleared away the remains of his supper and watered the gourd vine before he went to milk.  It was not really a gourd vine at all, but a summer-squash, of the crook-necked, warty, orange-coloured variety, and it was now full of ripe squashes, hanging by strong stems among the rough green leaves and prickly tendrils.  Claude had watched its rapid growth and the opening of its splotchy yellow blossoms, feeling grateful to a thing that did so lustily what it was put there to do.  He had the same feeling for his little Jersey cow, which came home every night with full udders and gave down her milk willingly, keeping her tail out of his face, as only a well disposed cow will do.

His milking done, he sat down on the front porch and lit a cigar.  While he smoked, he did not think about anything but the quiet and the slow cooling of the atmosphere, and how good it was to sit still.  The moon swam up over the bare wheat fields, big and magical, like a great flower.  Presently he got some bath towels, went across the yard to the windmill, took off his clothes, and stepped into the tin horse tank.  The water had been warmed by the sun all afternoon, and was not much cooler than his body.  He stretched himself out in it, and resting his head on the metal rim, lay on his back, looking up at the moon.  The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.  One expected to see its great petals open.

For some reason, Claude began to think about the far-off times and countries it had shone upon.  He never thought of the sun as coming from distant lands, or as having taken part in human life in other ages.  To him, the sun rotated about the wheatfields.  But the moon, somehow, came out of the historic past, and made him think of Egypt and the Pharaohs, Babylon and the hanging gardens.  She seemed particularly to have looked down upon the follies and disappointments of men; into the slaves’ quarters of old times, into prison windows, and into fortresses where captives languished.

Inside of living people, too, captives languished.  Yes, inside of people who walked and worked in the broad sun, there were captives dwelling in darkness, never seen from birth to death.  Into those prisons the moon shone, and the prisoners crept to the windows and looked out with mournful eyes at the white globe which betrayed no secrets and comprehended all.  Perhaps even in people like Mrs. Royce and his brother Bayliss there was something of this sort—­but that was a shuddery thought.  He dismissed it