Who cares?
These two men cared and so did she, bitterly, terribly, everlastingly.
Would Martin hear--oh, would he hear?
Martin, Martin! There was a long, strange silence.
"Well, my little Joan ?" "Well, Gilbert ?" He picked up her hand and put his lips to it.

"Still thinking ?" he asked, with a curious catch in his voice.
"Yes, Gilbert, give me time." He gave back her hand.

"The night is ours," he said, but there was pain in his eyes.
And there they sat, these two, within an arm's reach, on the edge of the abyss.

And for a little while there was silence--broken only by the crickets and the frogs and the turning of many leaves by the puffs of a sudden breeze.
Was she never going to hear the breaking of twigs and the light tread outside the window?
Martin, Martin.
And then Gilbert began to speak.

"I can see a long way to-night, Joan," he said, in a low voice.