Helen White was impressed. She nodded her head and a feeling of admiration swept over her. “This is as it should be,” she thought. “This boy is not a boy at all, but a strong, purposeful man.” Certain vague desires that had been invading her body were swept away and she sat up very straight on the bench. The thunder continued to rumble and flashes of heat lightning lit up the eastern sky. The garden that had been so mysterious and vast, a place that with Seth beside her might have become the background for strange and wonderful adventures, now seemed no more than an ordinary Winesburg back yard, quite definite and limited in its outlines. “What will you do up there?” she whispered. Seth turned half around on the bench, striving to see her face in the darkness. He thought her infinitely more sensible and straightforward than George Willard, and was glad he had come away from his friend. A feeling of impatience with the town that had been in his mind returned, and he tried to tell her of it. “Everyone talks and talks,” he began. “I’m sick of it. I’ll do something, get into some kind of work where talk don’t count. Maybe I’ll just be a mechanic in a shop. I don’t know. I guess I don’t care much. I just want to work and keep quiet. That’s all I’ve got in my mind.” Seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. He did not want to bring the meeting to an end but could not think of anything more to say. “It’s the last time we’ll see each other,” he whispered. A wave of sentiment swept over Helen. Putting her hand upon Seth’s shoulder, she started to draw his face down toward her own upturned face. The act was one of pure affection and cutting regret that some vague adventure that had been present in the spirit of the night would now never be realized. “I think I’d better be going along,” she said, letting her hand fall heavily to her side. A thought came to her. “Don’t you go with me; I want to be alone,” she said. “You go and talk with your mother. You’d better do that now.”