| “Wherever stars shine brightest, there my home shall be, In the murmuring forest or by the sounding sea, With overhead the green bough and underfoot the grass, Where only dreams and butterflies ever dare to pass!” |
“Is that Keats or Blake?” he ventured timidly.
“It’s me, you goose! But it’s only an imitation—why, Stevenson, of course, and pretty punk as you ought to know. Gracious!”
She jumped down from the wall, on the side toward the bungalow, and stared up at the tree she had embellished with her moon.
“The moon’s gone out, and I’ve got to go in!”
“Please, before you go, when can I see you again?”
“Who knows!” she exclaimed unsympathetically; but she waited as though pondering the matter.
“But I must see you again!” he persisted.
“Oh, I shouldn’t say that it was wholly essential to your happiness—or mine! I can’t meet burglars—socially!”
“Burglars! But I’m not—” he cried protestingly.