"After midnight, Uncle George, and miles from anywhere, so do please hurry."

These were parting words to an uncle as he started back to the nearest house—perhaps a quarter of a mile away—to get gasoline for his motor.

Alone in the car, the waiting woman began to realize the extraordinary darkness that enveloped her. Along the road, in front, the two head lights sent their beams of light. But elsewhere, on either side, behind her and above, the black air seemed almost threatening in its silence. So solemn was this silence that she began to imagine herself the only living creature in England. Her own home was in another country, and the invisible scenery on either side was all a mystery. It might be open fields or densest forest—or both. But the damp air that came slowly against her face seemed laden with odors of yet darker places, of deep ravines or sunless caves.

Was this hideous gloom a regular habit with English nights? Being in a foreign land this darkness was, perhaps, more terrifying than darkness in a more familiar country. In the heavens above were no signs of light, either of light that had been or of light to come. And it seemed, in this tomb-like silence, as if the very universe were dead: as if she had drifted into space—the infinite space of her astronomy. From this sable silence she sought relief in watching a portion of the road that lay before her, now illumined by the two lanterns of the car. These beams of light seemed a cheerful, human bond between life and death.

From the gloom, on her right, came the hopeless hoot of an owl. It seemed a voice from the sepulcher—a summons to despair.

A hundred feet, or more, in front of her, where the farthest rays of this light began to lose themselves and mingle with the darkness, she saw a rabbit jump into the road, and speed across it. She wondered what had frightened him. Also, she was inclined to blame him for not being safe at home with his family instead of roaming about the world on such an evil night. To a woman yearning for a sign of life 'twas a welcome sight; but this rabbit, although a thing of life, was as noiseless and unreal as the ghostly world about him. With his half dozen silent leaps through the bar of light he seemed a phantom creature, "of such stuff as dreams are made of."

From his nervous haste she judged that he was frightened. It was possible, of course, that he was a fearless rabbit and merely taking exercise for his health. But this theory was not accepted, and she watched with interest to see what sort of a pursuer, if any, might appear. Being in that state of mind when almost any imaginings might come true, she would not have been surprised had the pursuer been a real phantom.

But these speculations became less trifling, of a sudden, and were transferred to quite a more serious object. From the same place, in the same ghostly manner, but more slowly than his predecessor, stepped the figure of a man. Shading his eyes with a hand, he stood for a moment in the stream of light as if taking his bearings, or dazed by the glare of the lanterns. Then he scraped, with his foot, a line in the road at right angles to it, piling up a little mound of earth. The witness, in the car, supposed he was marking for future guidance the spot at which he entered from the blacker world. At last, and always with a hand before his eyes, he came toward the blinding headlights. The invisible spectator had straightened up and her dreaming eyes had opened wider. For the figure was a strange one. On its head was a curious cap, which seemed to be of leather. There were pieces at the ears standing up like wings, as on some ancient helmets she had seen in pictures. The rest of his attire also resembled leather, with high leggings reaching above his knees. Around his waist a wide metallic band, something wider and more important than a simple belt, glistened as he moved. The girl, in alarm, stood up, looked back and listened for the absent uncle. She heard nothing, and could see nothing. She sat down again, and waited.

The man, of medium height and slender figure, appeared to move unsteadily, as if weak, or dizzy. He walked slowly, and stopped, once or twice, as if to balance himself on unreliable legs. The unseen spectator thought he might be ill, or injured in some way. When, at last, he passed from the glare of the headlights and came into the darkness, beside the car, she could discern him, dimly—or rather felt his presence—as he stood there. And she knew that he was trying, and probably in vain, to form some idea of the seated figure before him. At last he spoke.

"Can you tell me, sir, where this is; what place?"

With these words the girl's fears departed. For, not only were they uttered in a gentle, well modulated tone, but the voice itself had a pleasing quality.

"I don't know, sir. But my uncle will be here in a moment. He can tell you."

She could see that he took a step backward, and stood further away.

"I beg your pardon, madam. One can't see much in this light. Could you tell me what—er—what state this is?"

"What state?"

"Yes—if you please."

This was a yet harder question. Did he mean some administrative division of the country which she had never learned. Being unfamiliar with English political geography, she answered simply.

"I don't know."

This time it was the questioner who was surprised. But, even more gently than before, he inquired:

"You don't know what state we are in?"

"No, sir."

There was a short silence.

"Could you tell me," he inquired, always deferentially, "the name of the nearest town?"

"Droitwich. I think we are in it now."

"Droitwich?"

"Yes, Droitwich."

He repeated the name as if hearing it for the first time.

"It must be a small place," he said.

"I think it is."

"What is the nearest town of importance;—the nearest city?"

"Worcester."

"Oh, Worcester! Thank you. I know Worcester. But I never heard of that other place,—this place,—Droitwich. How far are we from Worcester?"

"About six miles, I think—six or seven."

"Oh, really!" He seemed relieved. There was happy surprise in his tone. "Thank you. I am very much obliged. Good night."

He walked away, out into the stream of light. Slowly he walked, carefully and with uncertain steps. A few yards away, however, he stopped, hesitated, then turned, came back and again stood beside her.

"I beg your pardon for being so persistent, but may I ask you one more question, even more foolish than the others? This city of Worcester is in the State of Massachusetts, is it not?"

"In the state of Massachusetts?"

"Yes—that Worcester is the one you mean, is it not?"

Now if this conversation had occurred in the United States the girl might have answered wisely, for she was more familiar with that country and knew something of its geography. But when such wide-of-the-mark questions were propounded in the heart of England they brought bewilderment. Moreover, they indicated an unbelievable ignorance or a wandering mind—or impertinence.

Her frown, although invisible in the darkness, seemed to reach the traveler.

"I beg your pardon, but I really have no idea where I am. Would you mind just telling me what part of the country we are in? Are we in Massachusetts?"

His manner was earnest. The sincerity of his tone again inspired confidence—and awakened her sympathy. "I don't quite know how to tell you, but we are very far from Massachusetts."

"Then what state is this?"

"I don't know just what you mean by state. The only state of Massachusetts I ever heard of is in America."

"Isn't this America?"

This question so far transcended, in foolishness, all its predecessors that her fears returned. She made no reply. What traveler, in his senses, could be so far astray? Was he a wandering lunatic escaped from his keepers, preferring darkness to light? Or was he merely amusing himself at her expense? As she recalled the lateness of the hour, and his strange appearance on the scene, her fears once more returned. Her impulse was to stand up, turn about and see if her uncle was in sight. But she dared not stir. Such action might offend him. For lunatics are often sensitive, and easily enraged. The figure in the gloom, however, came no nearer, but remained at a proper distance. When next he spoke it was slowly, and yet more earnestly. And the girl knew from his manner as well as from his words that he suspected the impression he was making.

"I don't blame you, madam, for whatever thoughts you may have. I have traveled so fast and so far that I am really dazed. But if you will kindly tell me where we are, in what country, state, province or territory,—anything—it will be doing me a great service."

In a constrained voice, and in a tone which made it reasonably clear that this conversation was affording her little pleasure, she replied:

"We are near the city of Worcester, in England."

For a moment he stood in silence. Then, with a certain weariness in his voice, "Thank you. I hope you will pardon my disturbing you."

"Certainly."

Again he moved away.

This man's voice stirred memories. But these memories—of some far-away past—were dim and elusive. Vainly she tried to recall either when or where she had known the voice. Just as he was turning from the bar of light to disappear into the outer gloom, there came to her a gleam of memory from the distant past. Quickly she stood up in the car, her lips parted to call aloud. But she hesitated. A mistake, under present conditions, might prove more than awkward. So she uttered no sound. The stranger, however, as if responding to the unuttered words—to the thought itself—turned about and came toward the car. He walked quickly, but with the same unsteadiness as when he first appeared; and always with a hand before his eyes to shut out the blinding glare of the headlight. When alongside the car, again invisible in the darkness, he said:

"Yes, I am Drowsy. Who calls me?"

She was startled as she realized, in a kind of terror, that the unspoken message must have reached him. However, she answered, simply:

"Ruth Heywood."

With an exclamation of surprise and joy he opened the door, climbed in and seated himself beside her.

"Oh, this is too good!"

In the darkness he groped about and they managed to shake hands.

"Why, Ruth, this is hard to believe!"

It was, indeed! Many questions were asked, and answered. And they talked of earlier days at Longfields, of Longfields people, of what sort of men and women their playmates had become. More than all else, they talked of their old friendship and their various adventures together. And both laughed in recalling how Ruth in that distant period was mother, sister, aunt, governess and best girl to Cyrus. This revival of the old intimacy had reached a stage where the enshrouding darkness was almost forgotten.

"But tell me, Drowsy," she demanded, "how came you here and why did you ask all those crazy questions? I should be sorry to think you had been dining too well."

"Dining too well! No, my wabbly course just now was owing, partly, to not having dined at all:—and with neither lunch nor breakfast either."

"You poor thing! Then why pretend you didn't know you were in England?"

"There was no pretending. I really didn't know until you told me."

"Indeed! And where did you think yourself? In Australia?"

"I had no idea. If you had told me I was in Australia I should have believed you. I have been traveling so high above the earth that the upper ether went to my head—and legs."

"You must have been fast and far, even for a bird man, if you didn't know on which side of the ocean you had landed."

There was a silence:—a silence of doubt and of budding suspicion in the woman's mind.

"Listen, Ruth. I have been far and fast, even for a bird man. I will tell you all about it later, if you don't mind. If I told you now, you would think me crazier, if possible, than when I asked those questions. And I shouldn't blame you. My story would seem as fantastic as if I had been around the world in a night, or to another planet. What I have done—where I have been is—is—so impossible that you would be a very credulous person to believe it. But later I will tell you all—everything—please consider me in my right mind."

"In your right mind! Why, Drowsy, you were never in your right mind! So I should believe anything you told me—unless it was something easy or natural, like other people. You were always doing impossible things and thinking impossible thoughts—a most disturbing boy. I remember I always felt responsible for you. You wanted the moon—even then."

"And now, a full-fledged lunatic, I have just come from the moon!"

"I have no doubt you think so. And you were always reaching up to pick a star. Yes, you were a trial."

Cyrus laughed. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Just a little one?"

"Probably not. But what is it?"

"You remember our wedding at the Unitarian Church, away back in that enchanted past?"

"Yes."

"Well, just consider that ceremony binding."

"Now you are getting crazy again."

"No, I was never saner."

"Very likely, but you are crazy now. Why, Drowsy, being only a man, you don't realize how lucky we are that it was not binding!"

"Lucky for you, perhaps," said Cyrus, "but not for me. I am sure you are even more desirable, more beautiful, more generally perfect and irresistible—if possible—than you were then."

"On the contrary. If you could see me by daylight you would shout for joy at your escape."

"No, Ruth, you can't fool me that way. Are you little or big?"

He groped about and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I should say you were little."

She pushed away the hand. "Keep your hands to yourself, Cyrus. You forget we are no longer children."

Cyrus obeyed. "True enough. But we were really married, you know. Surely a husband may touch his wife's shoulder. Tell me, have you the same wonder-working eyes and mouth and haughty bearing? You are not a great big woman, I have discovered that."

"No, I am neither big nor lovely. I am little and dried up—and wrinkled, like a baked apple—and surprisingly ugly."

"Dried up at your age? May I touch your face just a little?"

"You may not!"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. There's charm in baked apples. There's character in a dried-up face."

"But that was only the beginning. As I dried and shriveled, my hair fell out."

"Good! I love a bald head—especially in a woman. There's no distinction in hair. All animals have it. In that delectable period of sudden marriages, I remember some things clearly, as if yesterday. I recall distinctly the eyes of my bride. No man could forget them. In their fathomless depths even a boy could lose himself. And, oh, so beautiful! One such eye would transform a dried apple face into a thing of joy. And in that bride's face were two of them. Don't tell me they, also, are gone."

"Only one."

"Too bad! Have you lost any limbs?"

"Not yet."

"And your teeth are gone?"

"Oh, long, long ago."

There was a silence. So black was the enveloping darkness that the silence itself seemed heavy, as if forbidding conversation.

At last Cyrus spoke. "So far as I can learn, your face is like a baked apple, your teeth and one eye are gone, and you have no hair. But I'll take you as you are."

Ruth laughed. "Why, Cyrus! That's practically an offer of marriage! You appear even wilder and more reckless than when you were trying to discover whether you were in England or Massachusetts."

"On the contrary, I am wiser than you think. I was in love with you in Longfields—and I am finding now that neither time nor absence have changed that feeling. What's a tooth, an eye, or a few hairs more or less to an honest lover?"

"Honest humbug! You forget how well I knew you. You had no respect for truth."

"Yes, but only as a child. I am telling the truth now, on my honor. Let's not separate again. Why, it's beginning a new life! Come. Let's go back to the Unitarian Church and be married just once more. Only once more; that's all I ask."

"Indeed I shall not! I am not buying a pig in a poke. When daylight came and I really saw you I might be sick with horror."

"No, no! I'm not so bad as that! In fact I look about as I did when a boy, only—more beautiful."

"Then you are a funny looking man, Drowsy, with your sleepy eyes and your little buttoned-up mouth."

Cyrus laughed. "No, I swear I'm not funny looking. I have the same eyes, but my mouth is three times as long. It's one of the largest and most admired mouths in Massachusetts. But why these questions? You saw me a few minutes ago when I came along. The glare of those headlights ought to illuminate any kind of a face."

"You held your hand before your face to shade your eyes."

"So I did. But, seriously, Ruthy, I realize now that all my old feeling for you has never died. Your voice alone revives the memories of those pleasant years. Why part again? It might be forever."

"A thousand reasons."

"But no good ones. What better test of my affection could you want? I don't ask to see your face. Your voice, your words, yourself, and old-time memories are more than enough. Come. Say yes."

"No. Never in the world! Suppose, when you could really see me, there came regrets. What a position for a woman! Oh, no! Never that!"

"Don't say 'never.'"

"Is this a habit of yours—making love in the dark to women you don't know? You should have a guardian."

"Be that guardian!"

"Thank you, I have other occupations."

Here came a silence. The thoughts of Cyrus, whatever they might be, were interrupted by Ruth:

"You must think me a most adaptable woman, Cyrus, to fall in love, at a minute's notice, with a voice and a memory."

"If you are a toothless, hairless, wrinkled, one-eyed hag you ought to be grateful."

"A toothless hag, even with no pride—may have a little caution."

"Anyway," said Cyrus, and he spoke more seriously—and with more decision—"I am in earnest. I may be talking like a fool—I don't know how to express myself. Meeting you again is like a new life. As a little girl, Ruthy, you were everything to me. You don't know what a difference, what a void it made when you vanished and left me adrift. Now that we are again together, and I am older, I realize what I lost. After you left Longfields—and your leaving was awfully sudden, if you remember—not even a chance to say good-by—I used to sit on your doorstep and try to think you would come out."

"Is that true?"

"On my honor. And one moonlight night when father and Joanna thought I was in bed I stood at my window and tried to get a message to you, in the old way—hoping a thought would reach you. Then I stole out of the house, ran to yours and threw little stones against the closed shutters of your empty chamber. Of course no answer came. But I waited and waited. The moonlight seemed to encourage me. And when I had waited in vain—a very long time,—it seemed a year—I pretended you came to the window and we had a long talk."

She laughed. "And what did I say?"

"You said just what I wanted you to say: the nicest things; the things I was yearning for. Quite different from what you are saying to-night."

"If you thought of me so much, why didn't you write to me?"

"I did. I wrote twice."

"I never got them."

"I will tell you why you never got them if you will promise not to laugh."

"I promise."

"They were directed simply to Miss Ruth Heywood, China. And China, I have learned since, is a larger place than Longfields."

"Oh, you poor boy!"

"And when I was a freshman at Cambridge, I tried hard to fall in love with a girl because she reminded me of you."

Ruth was silent. Cyrus went on. "When you first spoke here, a few minutes ago, your voice affected me in a way—in a way I can't describe. It seemed to open vistas of memory, as in a fairy tale. And the instant I realized that we were again together—why—it all came back with a rush—as of sunshine—like a wave, or a flood of unexpected happiness—and hope."

"Oh, Drowsy, what charming nonsense!"

"Yes—it is nonsense, if that kind of love is nonsense—the kind that begins in boyhood and never dies—that holds to one woman and will have no other."

He felt a hand on his arm. In her voice came a gentler note. "Listen, Drowsy. My uncle and I are on our way to a train. I am starting for Italy. When I know my permanent address I will—perhaps—see that you get it—indirectly, but not from me. Then, without committing either of us, if you are still as blind, as reckless and perverse as you are to-night, you can——"

"Still alive, Ruth?"

The voice came from the darkness and was close behind them.

Cyrus was presented as an old friend. He assisted the uncle in pouring the gasoline into the tank. The uncle was in haste to get away, still hoping to catch a train. There were a few words of parting before the motor with its two occupants slid away into the darkness.

This parting, to Cyrus, seemed even more sudden than the old one, long years ago.

For many minutes he stood looking in their direction. The night was black, and he saw nothing. But in his heart was a rosy dawn.

Incidentally, but of far less importance, he knew on what portion of the earth he had landed.