Rosamond, lifting her face to let the midsummer morning sky shower its splendour on her, echoed softly:
“Yes—the night is past.”
Falcon turned to her. He heard the secret call in her low note, the human undertone of the high wind-swung song of the nests.
Their eyes met. Their youth—and the joy and the hope of it—leaped in them, and they smiled wonderingly at each other.
With a buoyant, compelling movement Falcon went to her, under her golden leaf-laced veil of sun, and gripped her hand in the firm, warm clasp of a comrade who has sought long and will never let go of the mate he has found.
“Night is past—Good-morning, Rosamond!”
They laughed for sheer gladness.
THE END
