"You're afraid that I'll be frightened, aren't you?" she asked wistfully. "I wouldn't be--I wouldn't--please come back'" He was laughing at her, she knew, tender and mocking and caressing; she smiled back, tremulously. "You're thinking, 'I told you so!' Have you come far to say it to me?" Only that little stir--the wind was rising again. "Jerry, come close--come closer still. What are you waiting for, dear and dearest?" This time there was not even a stir to answer her; she felt suddenly cold to the heart. What had he always waited for? "You aren't waiting--you aren't waiting to go?" She fought to keep the terror out of her voice, but it had her by the throat. "Oh, no, no--you can't--not again! Jerry, Jerry, don't go away and leave me--truly and truly I can't stand it--truly!" She wrung her hands together desperately; she was on her knees to him--did he wish her to go lower still? Oh, she had never learned to beg! "I can't send you away again--I can't. When I sent you to France I killed my heart--when I let you go to death, I crucified my soul. I haven't anything left but my pride--you can have that, too. I can't send you back to your heaven. Stay with me--stay with me, Jerry!" Not a sound--not a stir--but well she knew that he was standing there, waiting. She rose slowly to her feet. "Very well--you've won," she said hardly. "Go back to your saints and seraphs and angels; I'm beaten. I was mad to think that you ever cared--go back!" She turned, stumbling, the sobs tearing at her throat; he had gone several steps before she realized that he was following her--and all the hardness and bitterness and despair fell from her like a cloak. "Oh, Jerry," she whispered, "Jerry, darling, I'm so sorry. And you've come so far--just to find this! What is it that you want; can't you tell me?" She stood tense and still, straining eyes and ears for her answer--but it was not to eyes or ears that it came. "Oh, of course!" she cried clearly. "Of course, my wanderer! Ready?" She stood poised for a second, head thrown back, arms flung wide--a small figure of Victory, caught in the flying wind. And, "Contact, Jerry!" she called joyously into the darkness. "Contact!" There was a mighty whirring, a thunder and a roaring above the storm. She stood listening breathlessly to it rise and swell--and then grow fainter--fainter still--dying, dying--dying-- But Janie, her small white face turned to the storm-swept sky behind which shone the stars, was smiling radiantly. For she had sped her wanderer on his way--she had not failed him! THE CAMEL'S BACK BY F. SCOTT FITZGERALD From _The Saturday Evening Post_