Leaning out, and resting his chin on his hands, he drew the night air into his lungs. Honeysuckle, or was it the scent of lilies still? The stars all out, and lots of owls to-night—four at least. What would night be like without owls and stars? But that was it—you never could think what things would be like if they weren't just what and where they were. You never knew what was coming, either; and yet, when it came, it seemed as if nothing else ever could have come. That was queer-you could do anything you liked until you'd done it, but when you HAD done it, then you knew, of course, that you must always have had to... What was that light, below and to the left? Whose room? Old Tingle's—no, the little spare room—Sylvia's! She must be awake, then! He leaned far out, and whispered in the voice she had said was still furry: “Sylvia!” The light flickered, he could just see her head appear, with hair all loose, and her face turning up to him. He could only half see, half imagine it, mysterious, blurry; and he whispered: “Isn't this jolly?” The whisper travelled back: “Awfully.” “Aren't you sleepy?” “No; are you?” “Not a bit. D'you hear the owls?” “Rather.” “Doesn't it smell good?” “Perfect. Can you see me?” “Only just, not too much. Can you?” “I can't see your nose. Shall I get the candle?” “No—that'd spoil it. What are you sitting on?” “The window sill.” “It doesn't twist your neck, does it?” “No—o—only a little bit.” “Are you hungry?” “Yes.” “Wait half a shake. I'll let down some chocolate in my big bath towel; it'll swing along to you—reach out.” A dim white arm reached out. “Catch! I say, you won't get cold?” “Rather not.” “It's too jolly to sleep, isn't it?” “Mark!” “Yes.” “Which star is yours? Mine is the white one over the top branch of the big sycamore, from here.” “Mine is that twinkling red one over the summer house. Sylvia!” “Yes.” “Catch!” “Oh! I couldn't—what was it?” “Nothing.” “No, but what WAS it?” “Only my star. It's caught in your hair.” “Oh!” “Listen!” Silence, then, until her awed whisper: “What?” And his floating down, dying away: “CAVE!” What had stirred—some window opened? Cautiously he spied along the face of the dim house. There was no light anywhere, nor any shifting blur of white at her window below. All was dark, remote—still sweet with the scent of something jolly. And then he saw what that something was. All over the wall below his window white jessamine was in flower—stars, not only in the sky. Perhaps the sky was really a field of white flowers; and God walked there, and plucked the stars....