their fascination for him. Night and he were friends. He had
discovered many of its secrets. A thousand times he had walked
hand in hand with the spirit of it, approaching each time a little
nearer to the heart of it, mastering its life, its sound, the
whispering languages of that "other side of life" which rises
quietly and as if in fear to live and breathe long after the sun
has gone out. To him it was more wonderful than day.

And this night that lay outside his window now was magnificent.
Storm had washed the atmosphere between earth and sky, and it
seemed as though the stars had descended nearer to his forests,
shining in golden constellations. The moon was coming up late, and
he watched the ruddy glow of it as it rode up over the wilderness,
a splendid queen entering upon a stage already prepared by the
lesser satellites for her coming. No longer was Kent oppressed or
afraid. In still deeper inhalations he drank the night air into
his lungs, and in him there seemed to grow slowly a new strength.
His eyes and ears were wide open and attentive. The town was
asleep, but a few lights burned dimly here and there along the
river's edge, and occasionally a lazy sound came up to him--the
clink of a scow chain, the bark of a dog, the rooster crowing. In
spite of himself he smiled at that. Old Duperow's rooster was a
foolish bird and always crowed himself hoarse when the moon was
bright. And in front of him, not far away, were two white,
lightning-shriven spruce stubs standing like ghosts in the night.
In one of these a pair of owls had nested, and Kent listened to
the queer, chuckling notes of their honeymooning and the flutter
of their wings as they darted out now and then in play close to
his window. And then suddenly he heard the sharp snap of their
beaks. An enemy was prowling near, and the owls were giving