“Do you want to play, Jon?”

“Yes,” said Jon, “let’s play. It’s the last time”; and he took his ukulele.

She sat down on the rug before the fire, and began to tune hers. Jon slipped down beside the spaniel and began to tune his. The spaniel got up and went away.

“What shall we sing?”

“I don’t want to sing, Anne. You sing; I’ll just accompany.”

She didn’t look at him! She would not look at him! It was all up! What a fool he’d been!

Anne sang. She sang a crooning phrase—some Spanish air. Jon plucked his strings, and the tune plucked his heart. She sang it through. She sang it again, and her eyes slid round. God! She WAS looking at him. She mustn’t see that he knew she was! It was too good—that long dark look over the ukulele. Between him and her were her ukulele and his own. He dropped the beastly thing. And, suddenly shifting along the floor, he put his arm round her. Without a word she drooped her head against his shoulder, as when they sat under the Indian mound. He bent his cheek down to her hair. It smelled, as it had then, of hay. And, just as she had screwed her face round in the moonlight, she turned it to him now. But this time Jon kissed her lips.