“I want the thrush,” I whispered back. “I want the thrush!”
“Yes,” she said, raising her eyes to mine, “oh, yes!”
And then, as we waited, our eyes meeting, suddenly he sang, far off across the tamaracks, one perfect call, and silence again. Her face was a glimmering radiance in the dusk. Her hand was warm in mine. Slowly my face sank toward hers, and our lips met–met for an instant when we were not masters of ourselves, when the bird song and the whispering pines wrought their pagan spell upon us.
Another instant, and she stood away from me, one hand over her mouth, one hand on her panting breast, and fright in her eyes. Then, as suddenly, she laughed. It was hardly a nervous laugh. It welled up with the familiar gurgle from her throat.
“John Upton,” she said, “you are a bad man. That wasn’t what the thrush said at all.”
“I misunderstood,” said I, recovering more slowly, and astounded by her mood.
“I’ll not reproach you, since I, a philologist, misunderstood for a second myself,” she responded. “Hark!”
There was a sudden sound of steps and crackling twigs in the grove behind us, and Buster emerged up the path, hot on our scent. He made a dab with his tongue at my hand, and then fell upon Miss Goodwin. She sank to her knees and began to caress him, very quickly, so that I could not see her face.
“Stella,” said I, “Buster has made a friend of you. That’s always a great compliment from a dog.”
She kept her face buried in his neck an instant longer, and then her eyes lifted to mine. “Yes–John,” she said. “And now I must go home to pack my trunk.”