Evans left word with Baldy that he would go home on the trolley. “I am not quite up to the supper and all that. Will you look after Mother?”
“Of course. Say, Evans, that song was top notch. Edith wants you to sing another.”
“Will you tell her I can’t? I’m sorry. But the last time I sang that was for the fellows—in France. And it—got me——”
“It got me, too,” Baldy confided; “made all this seem—silly.”
So Evans left behind him all the youth and laughter and light-heartedness, and took the last trolley out to Castle Manor. He had a long walk after the ride, but the cold air was stimulating, the sky was full of stars and the night was very still. Oh, how good it was to be out in that still and star-lighted night!
When he reached Castle Manor he passed the barn on his way to the house. He opened the door and looked in. There was a lantern, faintly lit, and he could see the cows resting on their beds of straw—great dim creatures, smelling of milk and hay—calm-eyed, inscrutable.
He entered and sat down. He felt soothed and comforted by the tranquillity of the dumb beasts—the eloquent silence.
He was glad he had escaped from the clamor of the costume ball—from Eloise and her kind.
Yet the Man born at Bethlehem had not escaped. He had gone among the multitudes—speaking.
Well ... it couldn’t be expected, could it, that men in these days would say to a girl like Eloise Harper, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour which is Christ the Lord”?