emoved, turbulent, unreal. Steering's strength failed him again,
and he fell back over the saddle and hung on. There come times in a
man's life, good times as well as bad times, when he can do nothing but
hang on. On these dizzying peaks of happiness, Steering scarcely dared
let himself look beyond the pony's nose. He was so high up, so near the
consummation of--oh--of everything. It would be ridiculously easy to set
matters straight now, in one way or another. She loved him! If that were
true, it would make everything else come right. And that was true. Piney
had been sure of it, and Piney had just left her. Everything else, all
life, could be made to close around that salient, delicate fact like the
rose-leaves close around the heart of the rose. Let her father keep the
hills; he did not care, if he could have the girl. He did not care about
anything, if he could have the girl. And he could have the girl. Thank
God for that.

Little by little he began to allow himself a meagre consciousness that
he was drawing nearer, nearer! Now, just below the grounds of Madeira
Place! Now, up along the bridle-path! Now, at the garden gate!

He leaned over the pony's head, slipped the gate latch, and passed into
the garden. Dismounting, he tied the pony, and turned toward the house.
Dark, in the shadow of the trees behind it, the house lay very quiet,
unlighted, infinitely peaceful. In front of the negro cabin at the side
of the house, Bruce could see Samson, his chair tilted against the cabin
wall, his pipe in his mouth, his bare feet swinging contentedly. From
inside the cabin came the low croon of Samson's fat black wife. Some
hens clucked sleepily in the hen-house. With the moonlight disintegrated
and softened by the trees, everything up toward the house breathed
peace. Out here in the garden, however, where the gold light beat down
straightly, there was a sense of waiting, unrest, sweet and tumultuous.
Out here in the garden it was glorious, but it was not peaceful. What
was it that was responsible for that misty halation of incompleteness,
longing? the shaking breath of the wide-lipped roses? the secrets within
the bowed slender lilies? the tortured joy of the whole garden life of
fragrance and beauty?

Over by the old vine-covered stump there was a gleam of white, swaying a
little, breathing a little, it seemed, and Steering went toward it,
strength coming back into his limbs, his head lifting as he came, his
arms outheld.