about IT?" "I
think it's them," said the second half. The first half reflected, "It
might be either one thing or two. But arithmetic's a nuisance--I never
was good at it." The second half confessed, "I always have to guess at
it myself. I'm only really sure of one bit." "Which bit's that?"
whispered the first half, and the second half whispered, "That one and
one make two." "Oh, you darling! of course they don't, and never did
and never will." "Well, I don't really mind," said little Joan. And
then there was a pause in which the two shadows were certainly one,
until the second half whispered, "Oh! oh, you've shaved it off!" And
this delighted the first half beyond all bounds; because even in the
circumstances it was clever of the second half to have noticed it.

But Martin could bear no more. He sprang forward crying "Joan!"--and he
grasped the empty swing. And round the orchard he flew, his hands
before him, calling now "Joyce!" now "Jane!" now "Jessica!" "Jennifer!"
"Joscelyn!" and again "Joan! Joan! Joan!" And all his answer was
rustlings and shadows and whispers, and faint laughter like far-away
echoes, and empty air.

All of a sudden the light rain stopped and the moon came out of her
cloud. And Martin found himself standing beside the Well-House, and
nobody near him. He gazed all around at the familiar things, the
apple-trees, the swing, the green wicket, the broken feast in the
grass. And then at the far end of the orchard he saw an unfamiliar
thing. It was a double ladder, arched over the hawthorn. And up the
ladder, like a golden shaft of the moon, went six quick girls, and
ahead of each her lad.* And on the topmost rung each took his milkmaid
by the hand and vanished over the hedge.

Martin Pippin was left alone in the Apple-Orchard.

*It is not important, but their names were Michael, Tom, Oliver, John,
Henry, and Charles. And Michael had dark hair and light lashes, and Tom
freckles and a snub-nose, and Oliver a mole on his left cheek, and John
fine red-gold hair on his bronzed skin; and Henry was merely the
Odd-Job Boy whose voice was breaking, so he imagined that it was he
alone who ran the farm. But Charles was a dear. He had a tuft of white
hair at the back of his dark head, like the cotton-tail of a rabbit,
and as well as corduroy breeches he wore a rabbit-skin waistcoat, and
he was a great nuisance to gamekeepers, who called him a poacher;
whereas all he did was to let the rabbits out of the snare