Over his shoulder I saw a strip of evening sky deepening slowly from mauve to violet. The long-drawn, quavering cry of an owl came across to us on the freshening air. And from behind a black fringe of elms there peeped out (fit witness to a Land-Girl's betrothal!) the big round primrose-colored Harvest-Moon.
Oh, night of Harvest in that rich Welsh valley! To some you meant the end of toil, relief from anxiety, triumph; to some the overthrow of darkling schemes. To me you were Love's dream come true; oh, night of stars and murmurs and caress, oh not-to-be-forgotten night ...
I found no words to voice what was in my heart, beating so near to his own.
"Dick, Dick!" I sighed.
He nestled his face (smudge and all) against mine, in a string of kisses that were just a give-and-take of the delight that is beyond all words.
POSTSCRIPT
THE VICTORY-DANCE
"Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light!
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
By thy wild and rocky steep,
Elsinore!"—CAMPBELL.
Lights, lights over London again!
After four years of darkness and gloom the dear old lights shone down on the streets where one could see people's faces plainly once again—and what a crowd of faces, too! The pinky speckle of them was like nothing as much as a huge flower-bed of that sturdy plant London Pride. And above them there had burst into bloom the sudden crop of fluttering flags ... the flags of Victory. Yes, at last after these four tense years Victory had set those flags waving and those lights blazing and those people cheering and shouting and dancing in the streets of London town.