The soft moonlight was now peeping through the screen of maple¹ leaves that arched the old stone bridge, as the shifting shadows of early evening settled down to quiet nightfall. Dorothy and her cousin did not at once turn their steps toward the Cedars²; instead they sat there on the bridge, enjoying the tranquil³ summer eve, and talking of what might happen when all their schooldays would be over and the long “vacation” of the grown-up world would be theirs to plan for, and theirs to shape into the rolling ball of destiny.

 

Nat declared he would be a physician, as that particular profession had ever been to him the greatest and noblest—to relieve human suffering. Dorothy talked of staying home with her brothers and father. They would need her, she said, and it would not be fair to let Aunt Winnie do so much for them.

 

“But I say, Dorothy,” broke in Nat. “This moonlight is all right, isn’t it?”

 

[119]

Dorothy laughed at his attempt at sentimentality. “It is delightful,” she replied, “if that is what you mean.”

 

“Yes, that’s it—delightful. For real, home-made sentiment apply to Nat White. By the pound or barrel. Accept no substitute. Good thing I did not decide to be a writer, eh? The elements represent to me so many kinds of chemical bodies, put where they belong and each one expected to do its little part in keeping things going. Now, I know fellows who write about the moon’s face and the sun’s effulgence⁵, just as if the poor old sun or moon had anything to do with the lighting-up process. I never speculate on things beyond my reach. That sort of thing is too hazy⁶ for mine.”

 

“Now, Nat, you know very well you are just as sentimental⁴ as any one else. Didn’t you write some verses—once?”

 

“Verses? Oh, yes. But I didn’t get mixed with the stars. You will remember it was Ned who said:

分享到：