The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slapped it
on his head again. She was always treating him like this--keeping him
hanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain that he
would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd go away,
and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!

Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house he watched, a
small brick, with shallow wooden steps and--curious architecture of Middle
West sixties--a wooden cellar door beside the steps.

In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its more
pretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lend tone
to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses had an
appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matter of
self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlessly
curtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no "yard" in the rear so tidy
with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence.

The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light through the
ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she stepped out
into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with tree
blossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playing
children and moving traffic.

The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, her
thin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps, the
door closed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture to the
cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From across the
Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All his courage was
for those hours when he was not with her.