* * * * *
The black fly season had passed, the leaves had begun to turn, before they packed up their meagre belongings to go back to the city and work. It had commenced to get cold, but on their last day the sun came out as if it were July.
They rowed across the lake to bid farewell to a great pine tree they had come to love. It stood alone on a little promontory, a hundred feet above the water. Its mates had fallen before the storms. Its loneliness emphasized its magnificent grandeur. There was a rich cushion of needles at its foot, and the view across the lake was exquisite.
The last month of their stay in the woods had been a veritable honeymoon. There was no spot on the lake so closely associated with their ardent emotions as this giant pine tree. Many times during the hot spell of August they had brought rugs and pillows and spent the night at its foot—bathing in the water below at sunrise.
When they had moored their boat and clambered up the steep bank, Isadore sat down, leaning against the trunk of their tree. Yetta stretched out on the carpet of pine needles and rested her head on his knee. Isadore ran his hand through her hair and now and again caressed her cheek. For some time they were silent—both rather oppressed by the idea that on the morrow they must go back to the city. They would no longer be alone together; much of this dear intimacy would have to be sacrificed to work.
Yetta suddenly turned and looked up into his face.
"Ib," she began. This name which she had concocted out of his initials—in spite of its absurdity—had the most tender connotation of any word in their vocabulary à deux—"Ib, there is something I want to tell you."
And then she stopped. Isadore, impressed her by seriousness, waited patiently for her to speak.
"It's hard to find words for it," she went on at last. "But I want you to know that I've been happier these weeks than I ever dreamed any one could be. This—" their vocabulary à deux had many lacunae—"It's been so different from what I expected. It isn't that I was afraid—only I was a little. I didn't think love would be like this. You see I hate to darn my own stockings—but I really enjoy darning yours. I guess that's inherently feminine. No service is really unpleasant when it's for the one we love. And I was ready to do any service for you—gladly. Can you understand what I'm trying to say? Well. It's been a surprise—a dizzying, joyous surprise. It isn't a service at all. It's—" Once more words failed her. "You remember one night you asked me if I really loved you. I thought I did then. I didn't know what I was talking about. But now—now that I know"—she brushed the foolish tears out of her eyes and reached up her hand to his cheek—"I really, really love you.
"Please. I don't want to be loved just now. I want to talk.