About her were all the eerie noises of the dark, the little, little sounds of little, little things.
"Good-bye," Diana whispered, "good-bye—dear forest."
The sounds seemed to swell triumphantly into a love song—the weird and wonderful song of the night. From bush and branch call answered call, mate invited mate; all the wild things of the wood were voicing their need, each of the other.
So the Beautiful Lady left behind her the sheltered hollow in the wood, and turned her face toward the sea with its beating storms, and she turned with gladness.
It was late the next afternoon when she came at last to her home on the harbor.
Sophie, warned by a telegram, was waiting for her.
"Oh, dearest dear," she said, as they embraced each other in the garden, "you beauty! Why, Diana, you don't look a day over twenty."
"I'm so happy, Sophie. Happy women are always young. Oh, I've so much to tell you. Your letter came with all the other letters. How silly we have been! That's the way with half the troubles in life. How easy it would be to be happy if only we could look into the minds of other people."
Peter Pan, hearing Diana's voice, came to them, tumultuously, leaping above the nasturtium borders and the brilliant flower beds.