The little bay received them quietly, and they mounted the cliff. She led the way to a snug and sheltered cranny in the silica, where gray moss had gathered deep. She tore away enough to reveal the stone beneath, and they kindled a fire. She took off her wet moccasins and placed them near the good heat. She unlaced his shoes, drew them off, and set them beside her own. She seated herself in the moss, drew him down beside her, put her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his. “Now tell me about the laboratory.” “Well, the other men will live on the west side of the inlet, but we will live with your father.” “That’s nice. Am I choking you?” “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Am I crushing your ribs?” “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Marvin, I don’t know any more about physics and chemistry than the babe unborn, but could you please explain in words of one syllable what you are going to investigate?” “The atom.” “Why?” “Because it’s fun to investigate things.” “Would you give only that answer to your father?” “No. I’d tell him that if we don’t release some of its energy within a century, our children’s standard of living will be too low to support laboratories. And if we don’t succeed within two centuries, the world will starve.” She smiled as Cornelia may have smiled when her boy Tiberius set forth to prevent Roman poverty, Roman starvation, Roman infanticide, and Roman war. “It’s all right, Marvin. You can’t help hoping, and I can’t help loving you for hoping.” “Darling, you don’t understand. Let me show you.” And eternal youth went and brought his panacea. Other youths bring other panaceas—laws, books, crosses, machines. They bring laws that none obey, books that nobody reads, songs that are soon forgot, crosses that are mocked in jewels, serums that save the unfit, telephones that transmit hate and lies, dynamos and turbines that merely increase labor—and mother believes in them all. From his bag he brought a little instrument containing a pinch of salt; nay, not so much, not a pinch. He took off his coat and spread it over both their heads as they lay in the deep dry moss. When minutes had passed and her eyes were grown accustomed to the darkness, he bade her look. There it was, the miracle she had longed to see. She held within her hand a flight of stars, faint as the dawn of hope, straight as arrows, radiant as heaven. Were they stars of Bethlehem, promising peace on earth? She could not say. She could only remember that Mary of Bethlehem bore a son, and that Marie of Poland bore a daughter. “Jean, do you realize what power is going to waste before your eyes?” “Yes.” “It’s quiet, isn’t it?” “Quiet as God.” “Don’t you trust Him to give such power into the hands of your children?”