He did not turn on the light, because he disliked seeing the raw blistered varnish of the dresser and the bent white iron of the bed. It sagged, and the light was dim—he hated dim lights, and the large moths, flapping blindly around on their dusty wings. He undressed in the moon. The moonlight fell upon the earth like a magic unearthly dawn. It wiped away all rawness, it hid all sores. It gave all common and familiar things—the sagging drift of the barn, the raw shed of the creamery, the rich curve of the lawyer’s crab-apple trees—a uniform bloom of wonder. He lighted a cigarette, watching its red glowing suspiration in the mirror, and leaned upon the rail of his porch, looking out. Presently, he grew aware that Laura James, eight feet away, was watching him. The moonlight fell upon them, bathing their flesh in a green pallor, and steeping them in its silence. Their faces were blocked in miraculous darkness, out of which, seeing but unseen, their bright eyes lived. They gazed at each other in that elfin light, without speaking. In the room below them, the light crawled to his father’s bed, swam up the cover, and opened across his face, thrust sharply upward. The air of the night, the air of the hills, fell on the boy’s bare flesh like a sluice of clear water. His toes curled in to grip wet grasses.
On the landing, he heard Mrs. Pert go softly up to bed, fumbling with blind care at the walls. Doors creaked and clicked. The house grew solidly into quiet, like a stone beneath the moon. They looked, waiting for a spell and the conquest of time. Then she spoke to him—her whisper of his name was only a guess at sound. He threw his leg across the rail, and thrust his long body over space to the sill of her window, stretching out like a cat. She drew her breath in sharply, and cried out softly, “No! No!” but she caught his arms upon the sills and held him as he twisted in.
Then they held each other tightly in their cool young arms, and kissed many times with young lips and faces. All her hair fell down about her like thick corn-silk, in a sweet loose wantonness. Her straight dainty legs were clad in snug little green bloomers, gathered in by an elastic above the knee.
They were locked limb to limb: he kissed the smooth sheen of her arms and shoulders—the passion that numbed his limbs was governed by a religious ecstasy. He wanted to hold her, and go away by himself to think about her.
He stooped, thrusting his arm under her knees, and lifted her up exultantly. She looked at him frightened, holding him more tightly.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you, my dear,” he said. “I’m going to put you to bed. Yes. I’m going to put you to bed. Do you hear?” He felt he must cry out in his throat for joy.
He carried her over and laid her on the bed. Then he knelt beside her, putting his arm beneath her and gathering her to him.
“Good night, my dear. Kiss me good night. Do you love me?”
“Yes.” She kissed him. “Good night, my darling. Don’t go back by the window. You may fall.”
But he went, as he came, reaching through the moonlight exultantly like a cat. For a long time he lay awake, in a quiet delirium, his heart thudding fiercely against his ribs. Sleep crept across his senses with goose-soft warmth: the young leaves of the maples rustled, a cock sounded his distant elfin minstrelsy, the ghost of a dog howled. He slept.
He awoke with a high hot sun beating in on his face through the porch awnings. He hated to awake in sunlight. Some day he would sleep in a great room that was always cool and dark. There would be trees and vines at his windows, or the scooped-out lift of the hill. His clothing was wet with night-damp as he dressed. When he went downstairs he found Gant rocking miserably upon the porch, his hand gripped over a walking-stick.
“Good morning,” he said, “how do you feel?”
His father cast his uneasy flickering eyes on him, and groaned.
“Merciful God! I’m being punished for my sins.”
“You’ll feel better in a little,” said Eugene. “Did you eat anything?”
“It stuck in my throat,” said Gant, who had eaten heartily. “I couldn’t swallow a bite. How’s your hand, son?” he asked very humbly.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Eugene quickly. “Who told you about my hand?”
“She said I had hurt your hand,” said Gant sorrowfully.
“Ah‑h!” said the boy angrily. “No. I wasn’t hurt.”
Gant leaned to the side and, without looking, clumsily, patted his son’s uninjured hand.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” he said. “I’m a sick man. Do you need money?”
“No,” said Eugene, embarrassed. “I have all I need.”
“Come to the office today, and I’ll give you something,” said Gant. “Poor child, I suppose you’re hard up.”
But instead, he waited until Laura James returned from her morning visit to the city’s bathing-pool. She came with her bathing-suit in one hand, and several small packages in the other. More arrived by negro carriers. She paid and signed.
“You must have a lot of money, Laura?” he said. “You do this every day, don’t you?”
“Daddy gets after me about it,” she admitted, “but I love to buy clothes. I spend all my money on clothes.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing—whatever you like. It’s a lovely day to do something, isn’t it?”
“It’s a lovely day to do nothing. Would you like to go off somewhere, Laura?”
“I’d love to go off somewhere with you,” said Laura James.
“That is the idea, my girl.
