"Yes," said Anna, "It's lovely."

She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted
to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse,
familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky,
filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel,
there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held,
to be hugged to her breast.

"Listen . . . they're singing Love's Old Sweet Song."

The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery,
urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of
her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then
silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The
figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a
dream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna,
over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in
the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.

"I could go on like this till the end of time."

"Could you?"

"I could ride like this forever and ever."

Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the
wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"

"That's what I mean."