She felt poignantly the beauty of it—the dark pines and the little moon above them—the tug of the wind at her cloak like a riotous playmate.
Baldy was not the only poet in the family, but Jane’s love of beauty was inarticulate. She would never be able to write it on paper or draw it with a pencil.
Down the path she went, the two pussy-cats like small shadows in her wake, until suddenly a voice came out of the dark.
“I believe it is little Jane Barnes.”
She stopped. “Oh, is that you, Evans? Isn’t it a heavenly night?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t talk that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because an evening like this is like wine—it goes to my head.”
“You are like wine,” he told her. “Jane, how do you do it?”