CHAPTER V.
THE WALK HOME.
You expect me to describe that walk.

You have had enough of the Jack Meanses and the Squire Hawkinses, and the Pete Joneses, and the rest.
You wish me to tell you now of this true-hearted girl and her lover; of how the silvery moonbeams came down in a shower--to use Whittier's favorite metaphor--through the maple boughs, flecking the frozen ground with light and shadow.

You would have me tell of the evening star, not yet gone down, which shed its benediction on them.

But I shall do no such thing.

For the moon was not shining, neither did the stars give their light.