`How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said.

`Yes,' I said, `doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.'

`Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much.'

I didn't notice it then, but, now I come to think of it,
it was a beautiful scene: there was a horseshoe of high blue hills
round behind the house, with the river running round under the slopes,
and in front was a rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges,
and a soft blue peak away over the ridges ever so far in the distance.

I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best side
turned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn't say anything
for a good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log
in a quiet place out of sight of the house.

`Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said.

`If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said.

There was about a foot of log between us.

`What a beautiful night!' she said.

`Yes,' I said, `isn't it?'

Presently she said, `I suppose you know I'm going away next month, Mr Wilson?'

I felt suddenly empty. `No,' I said, `I didn't know that.'