His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I
know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in
the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference?
"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my
breath; there's a regular fog of it."

"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about
her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And
at that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one,
wanted some one to belong to her . . .

"Thanks, Tom--dear."

The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below the
road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver
in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with
Barly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung just
over those trees, still, and faint with shadows.

"See," said Anna, "there's our light."

But Thomas did not even lift his head to look. In the chilly, solemn,
night air, he was warm and drowsy with his own silence, which being all
too full of things to say was like to turn him into sugar with pure
sorrow. And Anna, her round lips parted with desire, waited for him to
speak, and held his hand tighter and tighter.

"Starlight," she murmured, "starbright, very first star I see to-night,
wish I may, wish I might . . ."