The cuckoos by day, and now the
owls--how wonderfully they voiced this troubled ecstasy within him! And
suddenly he saw her at her window, looking out. He moved a little
from the yew tree, and whispered: "Megan!" She drew back, vanished,
reappeared, leaning far down. He stole forward on the grass patch, hit
his shin against the green-painted chair, and held his breath at the
sound. The pale blur of her stretched-down arm and face did not stir; he
moved the chair, and noiselessly mounted it. By stretching up his arm he
could just reach. Her hand held the huge key of the front door, and he
clasped that burning hand with the cold key in it. He could just see
her face, the glint of teeth between her lips, her tumbled hair. She was
still dressed--poor child, sitting up for him, no doubt! "Pretty Megan!"
Her hot, roughened fingers clung to his; her face had a strange, lost
look. To have been able to reach it--even with his hand! The owl hooted,
a scent of sweetbriar crept into his nostrils. Then one of the farm dogs
barked; her grasp relaxed, she shrank back.
"Good-night, Megan!"
"Good-night, sir!" She was gone! With a sigh he dropped back to earth,
and sitting on that chair, took off his boots.
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