So they went out together. A moment later I went out, too, and as I crossed the street on my way toward home I heard Anthy's voice through the night air, no words, just the inflection I had come to know so well, and then Nort's laugh. I stopped and looked back at the printing-office, half hidden in the shadows of its garden. A dim light still burned in the window. I saw Fergus come out and look down the street in the direction that Nort and Anthy had gone, look thus for some time, and go in again. And so I turned again homeward for my lonely walk under the stars. Life has been good to me, and as I look back upon it no one thing seems more precious than the thought that I have been much trusted with deep things in the lives of other men and women. Next to living great things for one's self (we learn by and by to put that aside) it is wonderful to be _lived through_. It is wonderful to know a human soul, and ask nothing of it, nothing at all, save its utter confidence. I know what took place that night when Nort first walked home with Anthy almost as well as though I had been with them. And I know how Fergus felt, Fergus who had known Anthy's father, who had seen Anthy grow up from a slim, eager, somewhat dreamy child to the woman she was now. What do you suppose Nort and Anthy talked about? About themselves? Not a bit of it! They began by talking about the _Star_ and the poems they had just printed and how Hempfield would like them. And Nort, taking fire from the spontaneous combustion of his own ideas, began to talk as only Nort can talk. He painted a renewed country journalism in glowing language--a powerful engine of public opinion emanating from the country and expressing the mind, the heart, the very soul, of the people of the land. (Nort had never before in his life spent two consecutive months in the country!) Great writers should contribute to its columns--yes, by George, great poets, too!--statesmen would consult its opinions, and its editor (and deep down inside Nort saw himself with incomparable vividness as that very editor), its editor would sway the destinies of the nation. As he talked he began to swing his arms, he increased his pace until he was a step or two ahead of Anthy, walking so quickly at times that she could scarcely keep up with him. Apparently he forgot that she was there--only he didn't quite. Apparently he was talking impersonally to the tree tops and the south wind and the stars--only he wasn't, really. When they came to the gate of Anthy's home, Nort walked straight past it and did not discover for a moment or two that Anthy had stopped. When he came back Anthy was standing, a dim figure, in the gateway. "Well," he said, "I've been doing all the talking----" Anthy's low laugh sounded clear in the night air. "Your picture of a reconstructed country newspaper is irresistible!"