"Hugh," she said gently, with a quaver in her voice that wounded his conceit in himself; for he was sure it spelled laughter at his expense and well-merited—"Hugh, you big sulky boy! get up this instant and come back to the house with me. You know I'm timid. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"I suppose so," he grumbled, rising. "I presume it's childish to want the moon—and sulk when you find you can't have it."
"Or a star?"
He made no reply; but his very silence was eloquent. She attempted a shrug of indifference to his disapproval, but didn't convince even herself; and when he paused before entering the house for one final look into the north, she waited on the steps above him.
"Nothing, Hugh?" she asked in a softened voice.
"Nothing," he affirmed dully.
"It's strange," she sighed.
"Lights enough off beyond the lighthouse yonder," he complained: "red lights and green, bound east and west. But you'd think this place was invisible, from the way we're ignored. However...."
They entered the kitchen.
"Well—however?" she prompted, studying his lowering face by lamplight.