The Moon Above the Marsh

It was manfully spoken but Diane's lips faintly curled. Philip's fine frank face colored hotly and he looked away.

In silence they sat there, Philip smoking restlessly and wondering, Diane staring at the creek, with Ronador's impassioned voice ringing wildly in her ears.

In the east the sky turned faintly primrose, the creek glowed faintly pink. The great moon glided lower by the marsh with the branch of a dead tree black against its brilliant shield. Marsh and oak were faintly gray. The metallic ocean had already caught the deepening glow of life. Where the stream stole swampwards, a mist curled slowly up from the water like beckoning ghosts draped in nebulous rags.

Suddenly in the silence Diane fell to trembling.

"Philip!" she cried desperately.

"Yes?" said Philip gently.

"Why are you following me with the music-machine?"

"I could tell you," said Philip honestly, "and I'd like to, but you'd tell me again that the moon is on my head."

The girl smiled faintly.

"Tell me," she begged impetuously, "what was that other reason why I must not journey to Florida in the van? You spoke of it by the lily pool in Connecticut. You remember?"

"Yes," said Philip uncomfortably. "Yes, I do remember."

"What was it?" insisted Diane, her eyes imploring. "Surely, Philip, you can tell me now! I--I did not ask you then--"

"No," said Philip wistfully. "I--I think you trusted me then, for all our friendship was a thing of weeks."