willow. Fate could not deny him requital. She never had. Equally, of
course, Joan's delirium, like his own, would not last. It could not.
The thought hurt his vanity a little.

It remained for him who had aroused it to linger here at the farm until
the fancy had run its course and she was quite herself! Even if, long
before, his own madness had waned. That was apt to happen, for he was
handicapped by an earlier start. Yes, he would linger. And he would be
scrupulous and honorable and kind. Joan was young and a woman. She
would nurse the shadows of her summer's idyl long after the idyl was
gone, and would mistake them for reality. There with his wider
experience and the sad memory of much ebb and now he could be helpful.

Kenny shivered and refused to dwell upon a phase of life that was like
autumn and sere and drifting leaves. It bothered him that the thought of
Hannah and Hughie had driven him to think it out. He liked best in heart
things to think back, not too far, and never forward.

"Kenny!" It was Joan's voice in the dusk.

Kenny forgot the sadness of his wisdom and foreboding. He forgot the
future. The thing to do always was to live in the present and now Joan's
voice, joyous and young, filled him with tenderness.

"Yes, Joan."

"The Gray Man of the Twilight's here. See, he's climbed up from the
valley and he's coming down the walk."

From the Gray Man's misty robes came the fragrance of syringa.