It was not until the shadow of the forest had crept far across the lake and the darkening waters were still that we rose reluctantly to put the dishes in the tea basket and start on our homeward journey.  The tawny fires of the sunset were dying down behind us, the mist stealing, ghostlike, into the valleys below; in the sky a little moon curled like a freshly cut silver shaving, that presently turned to gold, the white star above it to fire.

Where the valleys widened we came to silent, decorous little towns and villages where yellow-lit windows gleaming through the trees suggested refuge and peace, while we were wanderers in the night.  It was Nancy’s mood; and now, in the evening’s chill, it recurred to me poignantly.  In one of these villages we passed a church, its doors flung open; the congregation was singing a familiar hymn.  I slowed down the car; I felt her shoulder pressing against my own, and reached out my hand and found hers.

“Are you warm enough?” I asked....

We spoke but little on that drive, we had learned the futility of words to express the greater joys and sorrows, the love that is compounded of these.

It was late when we turned in between the white dates and made our way up the little driveway to the farmhouse.  I bade her good night on the steps of the porch.

“You do love me, don’t you?” she whispered, clinging to me with a sudden, straining passion.  “You will love me, always no matter what happens?”

“Why, of course, Nancy,” I answered.

“I want to hear you say it, ‘I love you, I shall love you always.’”

I repeated it fervently....

“No matter what happens?”

“No matter what happens.  As if I could help it, Nancy!  Why are you so sad to-night?”

“Ah, Hugh, it makes me sad—­I can’t tell why.  It is so great, it is so terrible, and yet it’s so sweet and beautiful.”

She took my face in her hands and pressed a kiss against my forehead....

The next day was dark.  At two o’clock in the afternoon the electric light was still burning over my desk when the telephone rang and I heard Nancy’s voice.

“Is that you, Hugh?”

“Yes.”

“I have to go East this afternoon.”

“Why?” I asked.  Her agitation had communicated itself to me.  “I thought you weren’t going until Thursday.  What’s the matter?”

“I’ve just had a telegram,” she said.  “Ham’s been hurt—­I don’t know how badly—­he was thrown from a polo pony this morning at Narragansett, in practice, and they’re taking him to Boston to a private hospital.  The telegram’s from Johnny Shephard.  I’ll be at the house in town at four.”