A deep summer night. The purple of the north seemed washed and thinned in ether, (nothing else could bring out the heavenly lustre of it), and the black, fragile top-foliage of the woods leaned against it, listening, feminine. Darkness only on the ground; yet he loved it, the heart of the dusk that throbbed there. He loved the earth and the water that mingled in the hollows. He breathed with strange delight the air that brushed the grass and the clover-scent that came to him around the hill.... And this was the momentary passion—that he was going from all this. He loved it as one who was passing beyond. It was like the dream after all. Just as Mother Earth was unfolding, he was called. She was like a woman long lived-with, but unknown, until the sudden revelation of parting.... He touched the stones with his hand.
In the hush, waiting for a katydid to answer, that night, Morning fell asleep.... He had climbed to his cabin, as if it were a room on an upper floor. Before he opened the door, he knew someone was within. Before the light, it was clear that someone was curled up asleep on the foot of his hard bed.... Yes, it was she who had restored his soul, that day at the Armory—and there she lay sleeping.... He did not call her, as he had called Moto-san; there was no thought to waken her, for everything was so pure and lovely about it. He stood there, and watched her gratefully—it seemed a long time—until the katydid answered.
3
After Markheim had kept the play three months—it was now November—Morning crossed to the city to force the decision. The producer was prevailed upon to see him.
“It will be read once more,” said Markheim. “It will go or not. We like it, but we are afraid of it. To-morrow we will know or not.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know. I do not read plays.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes.”