There was a lace of faint mists along the creek and beyond, when John and

Helen reached their bench (of course they went back there), and broken

roundelays were croaking from a bayou up the stream, where rakish frogs

held carnival in resentment of the lonesomeness. The air was still and

close. Hundreds of fire-flies coquetted with the darkness amongst the

trees across the water, glinting from unexpected spots, shading their

little lanterns for a second to glow again from other shadows. The sky was

a wonderful olive green; a lazy cloud drifted in it and lapped itself

athwart the moon.

"The dead painters design the skies for us each day and night, I think,"

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Helen said, as she dropped a little scarf from her shoulders and leaned

back on the bench. "It must be the only way to keep them happy and busy

'up there.' They let them take turns, and those not on duty, probably

float around and criticise."

"They've given a good man his turn to-night," said John; "some quiet

colorist, a poetic, friendly soul, no Turner--though I think I've seen a

Turner sunset or two in Plattville."

"It was a sculptor's sunset this evening. Did you see it?--great massy

clouds piled heap on heap, almost with violence. I'm sure it was

Michelangelo. The judge didn't think it meant Michelangelo; he thought it

meant rain."

"Michelangelo gets a chance rather often, doesn't he, considering the

number of art people there must be over there? I believe I've seen a good

many sunsets of his, and a few dawns, too; the dawns not for a long time--

I used to see them more frequently toward the close of senior year, when

we sat up all night talking, knowing we'd lose one another soon, and

trying to hold on as long as we could."

She turned to him with a little frown. "Why have you never let Tom

Meredith know you were living so near him, less than a hundred miles, when

he has always liked and admired you above all the rest of mankind? I know

that he has tried time and again to hear of you, but the other men wrote

that they knew nothing--that it was thought you had gone abroad. I had

heard of you, and so must he have seen your name in the Rouen papers--

about the 'White-Caps,' and in politics--but he would never dream of

connecting the Plattville Mr. Harkless with his Mr. Harkless, though I

did, just a little, and rather vaguely. I knew, of course, when you came

into the lecture. But why haven't you written to my cousin?"

"Rouen seems a long way from here," he answered quietly. "I've only been

there once--half a day on business. Except that, I've never been further

away than Amo or Gainesville, for a convention or to make a speech, since

I came here."




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