"Well, if you'll take good care of me. I used to be able to climb, when I was a little girl." Once at the top and seated on the platform, they were silent. Margaret wondered if she would not hunger for that scene all her life, through all the routine of the days to come. Above them stretched the great Western sky, serenely blue, even in the night, with its big, burning stars, never so cold and dead and far away as in denser atmospheres. The moon would not be up for twenty minutes yet, and all about the horizon, that wide horizon, which seemed to reach around the world, lingered a pale, white light, as of a universal dawn. The weary wind brought up to them the heavy odors of the cornfields. The music of the dance sounded faintly from below. Eric leaned on his elbow beside her, his legs swinging down on the ladder. His great shoulders looked more than ever like those of the stone Doryphorus, who stands in his perfect, reposeful strength in the Louvre, and had often made her wonder if such men died forever with the youth of Greece. "How sweet the corn smells at night," said Margaret nervously. "Yes, like the flowers that grow in paradise, I think." She was somewhat startled by this reply, and more startled when this taciturn man spoke again. "You go away to-morrow?" "Yes, we have stayed longer than we thought to now." "You not come back any more?" "No, I expect not. You see, it is a long trip; half-way across the continent." "You soon forget about this country, I guess." It seemed to him now a little thing to lose his soul for this woman, but that she should utterly forget this night into which he threw all his life and all his eternity, that was a bitter thought. "No, Eric, I will not forget. You have all been too kind to me for that. And you won't be sorry you danced this one night, will you?" "I never be sorry. I have not been so happy before. I not be so happy again, ever. You will be happy many nights yet, I only this one. I will dream sometimes, maybe." The mighty resignation of his tone alarmed and touched her. It was as when some great animal composes itself for death, as when a great ship goes down at sea. She sighed, but did not answer him. He drew a little closer and looked into her eyes. "You are not always happy, too?" he asked. "No, not always, Eric; not very often, I think." "You have a trouble?" "Yes, but I cannot put it into words. Perhaps if I could do that, I could cure it." He clasped his hands together over his heart, as children do when they pray, and said falteringly, "If I own all the world, I give him you." Margaret felt a sudden moisture in her eyes, and laid her hand on his. "Thank you, Eric; I believe you would. But perhaps even then I should not be happy. Perhaps I have too much of it already."