Martin: Then farewell my story. A thing as important as thistledown is as unimportantly dismissed. And yonder in heaven the moon sulks at us through a cloud with a quarter of her eye, reproaching us for our peace-destroying chatter. It destroys our own no less than hers. To dream is forbidden, but at least let us sleep. One by one the milkmaids settled in the grass and covered their faces with their hands, and went to sleep. But Jennifer remained where she was. She sat with downcast eyes, softly drawing the grassblade through and through her fingers, and the swing swayed a little like a branch moving in an imperceptible wind, and her breast heaved a little as though stirred with inaudible sighs. She sat so long like that that Martin knew she had forgotten he was beside her, and he quietly put out his hand to draw the grassblade from hers. But before he had even touched it he felt something fall upon his palm that was not rain or dew. "Dear Mistress Jennifer," said Martin gently, "why do you weep?" She shook her head, since there are times when the voice plays a girl false, and will not serve her. "Is it," said Martin, "because the grass is not green enough?" She nodded. "Pray let me judge," entreated Martin, and took the grassblade from her fingers. Whereupon she put her face into her two hands, whispering: "Master Pippin, Master Pippin, oh, Master Pippin." "Let me judge," said Martin again, but in a whisper too. Then Jennifer took her hands from her wet face, and looked at him with her wet eyes, and said with great braveness and much faltering: "I will be nineteen in November." At this Martin looked very grave, and he got down from the tree and walked to the end of the orchard full of thought. But when he turned there he found that she had stolen after him, and was standing near him hanging her head, yet watching him with deep anxiety. Jennifer: It is t-t-too old, isn't it? Martin: Too old for what? Jennifer: I--I--I don't know. Martin: It is, of course, extremely old. There are things you will never be able to do again, because you are so old. Jennifer sobbed. Martin: You are too old to be rocked in a cradle. You are too old to write pothooks and hangers, and too old, alas, to steal pickles and jam when the house is abed. Yet there are still a few things you might do if-- Jennifer: Oh, if? Martin: If you could find a friend as old as yourself, or even a little older, to help you. Jennifer: But think how old h--h--h-- the friend would have to be. Martin: What would that matter? For all grass is green enough if it not near grass that looks greener. Jennifer: Oh, is this true? Martin: It is indeed. And I believe too that were your friend's hair red enough, and your friend's freckled nose snub enough, since youth resides long in these qualities, you might even, with such a companion, begin once more to steal pickles and jam by night, to learn your pothooks and hangers, and even in time to be rocked asleep by a cradle.