She felt that she had lost something, that in truth had never been hers.
It was but the unconscious poise of her unawakened girlhood which had been
stirred; she had mistaken it for that abiding peace which is not lost or
won in a day.

Dorothy could no more stifle the spring thrills in her blood than she could
crush the color out of her cheek or brush the ripples out of her bright
hair, but she longed for the cool grays and the still waters. She prayed
that the "grave and beautiful damsel called Discretion" might take her by
the hand and lead her to that "upper chamber, whose name is Peace." She lay
awake listening to the music from the barn, and waiting through breathless
silences for it to begin again. She wondered if Fanny Jordan had grown any
prettier since she had seen her as a half-grown girl, and then she despised
herself for the thought. The katydids seemed to beat their wings upon her
brain, and all the noises of the night, far and near, came to her strained
senses as if her silent chamber were a whispering gallery. The clock struck
twelve, and in the silence that followed she missed the music; but voices
talking and laughing were coming down the lane. There was the clink of a
horse's hoof on the stones: now it was lost on the turf, and now they were
all trooping noisily past the house. She buried her head in her pillow and
tried to bury with it the consciousness that she was wondering if Evesham
were there laughing with the rest.

Yes, Evesham was there. He walked with Farmer Jordan, behind the young men
and girls, and discussed with him, somewhat absently, the war news and the
prices of grain.

As they passed the dark old house, spreading its wide roofs like a hen
gathering her chickens under her wing, he became suddenly silent. A white
curtain flapped in and out of an upper window. Evesham looked up and