on the kitchen wall, where, in the watery light of a
small, glass lamp, Gordon and Clare Makimmon ate
their supper of flat, dark, salt-raised bread, strips of
bacon and dripping greens, and swimming, purplish
preserves.

After supper they sat on the narrow porch, facing
the dark, whispering stream, the night pouring into
the deep, still valley. A cold air rose from the surface
of the water, and Clare wrapped a worn piece
of blanket about her shoulders. At frequent intervals
she gazed with palpable delight at her feet,
shod in the "real buck." A deep, melancholy
chorus of frogs rose from the creek, mingling with
the high, metallic shrilling of crickets, the reiterated
calling of whippoorwills from a thicket of pines.

Gordon Makimmon settled into a waking somnolence,
lulled by the familiar, profound, withdrawn
repose of the valley. He could distinguish Clare's
form weaving back and forth in a low rocker; the
moonless, summer night embraced, hid, all; there
were no lights in the house at his back, no lights visible
in the village beyond; only the impenetrable
blackness of the opposite range and the abrupt band
of stars.

Suddenly Clare's even breathing, the tracking
sound of the chair, ceased; she drew two or three
sharp, gasping inspirations. Gordon, instantly
alert, rose and stood over her. "Is it bad tonight

[[39]]

p038 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p039w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p040

v?