go. Well, why not? This was a night of
the unusual, when she was not herself at all, but was living an
unreality. To-morrow, yes, in a few hours, there would be the
Vestibule Limited and the world.

"Well, if you'll take good care of me. I used to be able to climb,
when I was a little girl."

Once at the top and seated on the platform, they were silent.
Margaret wondered if she would not hunger for that scene all her
life, through all the routine of the days to come. Above them
stretched the great Western sky, serenely blue, even in the night,
with its big, burning stars, never so cold and dead and far away as
in denser atmospheres. The moon would not be up for twenty minutes
yet, and all about the horizon, that wide horizon, which seemed to
reach around the world, lingered a pale, white light, as of a
universal dawn. The weary wind brought up to them the heavy odors of
the cornfields. The music of the dance sounded faintly from below.
Eric leaned on his elbow beside her, his legs swinging down on the
ladder. His great shoulders looked more than ever like those of the
stone Doryphorus, who stands in his perfect, reposeful strength in
the Louvre, and had often made her wonder if such men died forever
with the youth of Greece.

"How sweet the corn smells at night," said Margaret nervously.

"Yes, like the flowers that grow in paradise, I think."

She was somewhat startled by this reply, and more startled when this
taciturn man spoke again.

"You go away to-morrow?"

"Yes, we have stayed longer than we thought to now."

"You not come back any more?"

"No, I expect not. You see, it is a long trip; half-way across the
continent."

"You soon forget about this country, I guess." It seemed to him now
a little thing to lose his soul for this woman, but that she should
utterly forget this night into which he threw all his life and all
his eternity, that was a bitter thought.

"No, Eric, I will not forget. You have all been too kind to me for
that. And you won't be sorry you danced this one night, will you?"

"I never be sorry. I have not been so happy before. I not be so
happy again, ever. You will be happy many nights yet, I only this
one. I will dream sometimes, maybe."

The mighty resignation of his tone alarmed and touched her. It was
as when some great animal composes itself for death, as when a great
ship goes down at sea.

She sighed, but did not answer him. He drew a little closer and
looked into her e