To Kenny, walking through the orchard, ghosts of blossoms blew fragrantly above his head.

The blossoms were gone like his peace of mind.

He hungered for Joan.
In the velvet dimness the wistaria vine beneath her window loomed forth like a shower of shadow; a grotesque ladder of bloom warm to his mind with invisible color and yet darker to his eye than the night with its silver sheen of stars.
A ladder?
Kenny caught his breath and stood still, quite still.

It was a ladder.

Some one was climbing down.