Jacqueline and Desboro, lingering by the open door, saw the distant hills turn to purest cobalt, and the girdling woodlands clothe themselves in purple haze. Dusk came stealing across the meadows, and her frail ghosts floated already over the alder-hidden brook. A near robin sang loudly. A star came out between naked branches and looked at them.
"How still the world has grown," breathed Jacqueline. "Except for its silence, night with all its beauties would be unendurable."
"I believe we both need quiet," he said.
"Yes, quiet—and each other."
Her voice had fallen so exquisitely low that he bent his head to catch her words. But when he understood what she had said, he turned and looked at her; and, still gazing on the coming night, she leaned a little nearer to him, resting her cheek lightly against his shoulder.
"That is what we need," she whispered, "—silence, and each other. Don't you think so, Jim?"
"I need you—your love and faith and—forgiveness," he said huskily.
"You have them all. Now give me yours, Jim."
"I give you all—except forgiveness. I have nothing to forgive."
"You dear boy—you don't know—you will never know how much you have to forgive me. But if I told you, I know you'd do it. So—let it rest—forgotten forever. How fragrant the night is growing! And I can hear the brook at intervals when the wind changes—very far away—very far—as far as fairyland—as far as the abode of the Maker of Moons."