Blue-Bird Weather

The kitchen door opened, and Molly Herold came down the steps and

straight toward him, unthinkingly, almost instinctively, laying her

hands in his as he met her under the leafless China tree in the yard.

"I was longer than usual to-night," she said, "trying to soften my hands

with that cold cream you so kindly sent for." She lifted them in the

starlight with a little laugh. "They're a trifle better, I think," she

said, "but they're always in water, you know, either there," she glanced

around at the kitchen, "or yonder with the decoys. But thank you all the

same," she added brightly. "Are you going to have another delightful

talk, now?"

"Do you care to?"

"Of course. The idea of my not caring to talk to you," she said,

laughing at the absurdity. "Shall we go into the sitting room, or walk

in the starlight? There are no snakes out, yet," she assured him,

"though if this weather holds, the moccasins will come out."

"We'll walk down to the shore," he said.

"One moment, then." She turned and sped to the house, reappearing, after

a few minutes, wearing her ragged shooting coat.

"Is your father comfortable?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Do you think he might want you?"

"No. Jim sleeps next to him, and he is preparing for bed, now." She

smiled. "What a darling my brother is, isn't he, Mr. Marche?"

"He's a fine boy."

They moved on together, down the rutted lane, between dismantled fences

and ragged, leafless hedges. She was lithe and light and sure footed,

but once or twice, as they skirted puddles, he supported her; and the

touch of his hand on her body almost unnerved him. Never had he dreamed

that contact with any woman could so thrill, so exquisitely shock. And

every instant he was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. He knew

it--realized it--made no effort to avoid it, fight it off, control it.

It was only his speech and manner that he held desperately under bit and

curb, letting his heart go to everlasting smash and his reason run riot.

And what on earth would be the end he could not imagine, for he was

leaving for the North in the morning, and he had not yet told her.

As they came out upon the shore, the dory loomed up, beached, a dark

silhouette against the starlit water. She laid her hands on the stern

and vaulted lightly to her perch, sliding along to make room for Marche.