and how the idea had satisfied him that, having Fidelia, he had all he could want and that, after life with her, he would ask nothing more. But he was asking for more now.
He heard some one and, looking down from the stars, he saw Alice in the dim light from those far-away galaxies of the sky. The starlight was the only light over the lawn.
It was a large, wide lawn with many trees, some of them bare of bough on this October night, some of them fir and cedars which stood in great, tapering clumps against the stars.
To-night this western shore of Illinois, washed by the silent, wide waters of the Mississippi was warmer than the shore of the lake. From across the river and up from the southwest plains a mild sirocco was blowing and the season seemed earlier than in Chicago. It was like a mild night in autumn or spring when David and Alice used to wander outdoors from dances at college. She was in white, wearing her maid-of-honor dress, and she had not even a scarf over her white shoulders. Oh, it mightily reminded him of old times with her.
Alice asked, as she approached him: "You've heard their train?"
"No," he said. "But I haven't been listening for it."
"She's happy," said Alice. "Happy as ever she hoped to be. Happier, I guess."
"He is," said David.
"He ought to be."
"Yes; he ought."
