I am thy mate.
Come!"

Pan took my hand in his as he chanted, and held my fingers to his lips, and
ended his chant with several weird, eery, crooning notes blown across his
lips and through my fingers out into the moonlit shadows.

"I feel about you just as I do about one of Mrs. Ewe's lambkins," I
whispered, with a queer answering laugh in my voice, which held and
repeated the croon in his.

"I am thy child.
I am thy mate.
Oh, come!"

again chanted Pan, and it surely wasn't imagination that made me think that
the red crests ruffled in the wind. The light in his eyes was unlike
anything I had ever seen; it smouldered and flamed like the embers under
the pot beside the rock. It drew me until the sleeve of my smock brushed
his sleeve of gray flannel. His arms hovered, but didn't quite enclose me.

"And the way I am going to feel about all the little chickens out of the
incubator," I added slowly as if the admission was being drawn out of me.
Still the arms hovered, the crests ruffled, and the eyes searched down
into the depths of me, which had so lately been plowed and harrowed and
sown with a new and productive flower.

"And the old twin fathers," I added almost begrudgingly, as I cast him my
last treasure.