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"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you."
The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and to be
there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow oddly familiar.
Amory thought how it was only the past that ever seemed strange and
unbelievable. The match went out.
"It's black as pitch."
"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices.
"That was my last match."
Suddenly he caught her in his arms.
"You _are_ mine--you know you're mine!" he cried wildly... the moonlight
twisted in through the vines and listened... the fireflies hung upon
their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
THE END OF SUMMER
"No wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs... the water
in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so inters
the golden token in its icy mass," chanted Eleanor to the trees that
skeletoned the body of the night. "Isn't it ghostly here? If you can
hold your horse's feet up, let's cut through the woods and find the
"It's after one, and you'll get the devil," he objected, "and I don't
know enough about horses to put one away in the pitch dark."
"Shut up, you old fool," she whispered irrelevantly, and, leaning over,
she patted him lazily with her riding-crop. "You can leave your old plug
in our stable and I'll send him over to-morrow."
"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at
"Don't be a spoil-sport--remember, you have a tendency toward wavering
that prevents you from being the entire light of my life."
Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped
"Say I am--_quick_, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind me."
She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly.
"Oh, do!--or rather, don't! Why are all the exciting things so
uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and ski-ing in Canada? By
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