He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her--she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes.

His paganism soared that night and when she faded out like a gray ghost down the road, a deep singing came out of the fields and filled his way homeward.

All night the summer moths flitted in and out of Amory's window; all night large looming sounds swayed in mystic revery through the silver grain--and he lay awake in the clear darkness.
***** SEPTEMBER Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically.
"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered.
"When then ?" "Christmas or Easter.

I'm a liturgist." "Easter!" She turned up her nose.

"Huh! Spring in corsets!" "Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she?
Easter has her hair braided, wears a tailored suit." "Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet.
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better day for autumn than Thanksgiving." "Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but summer..." "Summer has no day," she said.