. . She was
chilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky,
heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver's
seat, and Thomas, whispering at her side.
"What a grand night. Clear as a bell."
"Yes," said Anna, "It's lovely."
She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted
to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse,
familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky,
filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel,
there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held,
to be hugged to her breast.
"Listen . . . they're singing Love's Old Sweet Song."
The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery,
urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of
her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then
silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The
figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a
dream.
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