". . . (and) for our brother, the wind, and for air and cloud, calm and all weather . . . ". . . (and) for our mother, the earth, which does sustain us and keep us . . . "Praised be the Lord for all those who pardon one another . . . and who endure weakness and tribulation; blessed are they who peaceably shall endure . . ." Slowly, to the tonkle of herds in pasture, the crowing of cocks, and the thin, clear clang of the smithy, the full sun sank in the west. For a time all was quiet, as night, the shadow of the earth, crept between man and God. After supper Thomas Frye, in his father's wagon, went to call on Anna Barly. From her porch where she sat hidden by vines which gave forth an odor sweeter than honey, the night was visible, pale and full of shadows. To the boy beside her, timid and ardent, the silence of her parents seemed, like the night, to be full of opinions. "Well . . . shall we go for a ride?" Anna called in to her mother, "I'm going for a ride with Tom." "Don't be late," said her mother. The two went down the path, and climbed into the buggy; soon the yellow lantern, swung between its wheels, rolled like a star down the road to Milford. "Why so quiet, Tom?" "Am I, Ann?" "Angry?" "Just thinking . . . so to say." "Oh." And she began to hum under her breath. "I was just thinking," he said again. Then, solemnly, he added, "about things." "About you and me," he wound up finally. When she offered him a penny for his thoughts, he said, "Well . . . nothing." "Dear me." At his hard cluck the wagon swept forward. "You know what I was thinking," he said. "Do I?" asked Anna innocently. "Don't you?" "Perhaps." So they went on through the dark, under the trees, to Milford. When their little world, smelling of harness, came to a halt in front of the drug store, they descended to quench their thirst with syrup, gas, milk, and lard. Then, with dreamy faces, they made their way to the movies. Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other. For they do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon the screen. It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both. "How beautiful I am," thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish. "And how elegant to be in love." Later Anna will say to herself: "Other people's lives are like that." On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran briskly through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground, turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them under again. "Ann," he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you care for me . . . any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with his long whip. "Yes, I do, Tom." "As much as you did?" "Just as much." "More, Ann?" "Maybe." "Then . . . will you? Say, will you, Ann?" "I don't know, Tom. Don't ask me. Please." "But I've got to ask you," he cried.