Cane returned late in the day. The cows had been sold—“I even made five hundred clear and above the feeding and labour on the one with the off leg. She’ll breed good cattle.” The barns were as clean as a park, and Roseanne was singing as she prepared dinner.

Nothing happened until a hot night in August. The leaves were still and limp, the moon had set. Hugo lay awake and he heard her coming quietly up the stairs.

“Ralph had a headache and he took two triple bromides. Of course, I could always have said that I heard one of the cows in distress and came to wake you. But he’s jealous, poor dear. And then—but who could resist a couple of simultaneous alibis?”

“Nobody,” he whispered. She sat down on his bed. He put his arm around her and felt that she was in a nightdress. “I wish I could see you now.”

“Then take this flashlight—just for an instant. Wait.” He heard the rustle of her clothing. “Now.”

She heard him draw in his breath. Then the light went out.

With the approach of autumn weather Roseanne caught a cold. She continued her myriad tasks, but he could see that she was miserable. Even Cane sympathized with her gruffly. When the week of the cattle show in New York arrived, the cold was worse and she begged off the long trip on the trucks with the animals. He departed alone with his two most precious cows, scarcely thinking of her, muttering about judges and prizes.

Again she came out to the barn. “You’ve made me a dreadful hypocrite.”

“I know it.”

“You were waiting for me! Men are so disgustingly sure of everything!”

“But—”

“I’ve made myself cough and sniffle until I can’t stop.”

Hugo smiled broadly. “All aboard the carpet....”

They lay in a field that was surrounded by trees. The high weeds hid them. Goldenrod hung over them. “Life can’t go on—”

“Like this,” he finished for her.

“Well—can it?”

“It’s up to you, Roseanne. I never knew there were women—”

“Like me? You should have said ‘was a woman.’”

“Would you run away with me?”

“Never.”

“Aren’t we just hunting for an emotion?”

“Perhaps. Because there was a day—one day—in the pines—”

He nodded. “Different from these other two. That’s because of the tragic formation of life. There is only one first, only one commencement, only one virginity. Then—”

“Character sets in.”

“Then it becomes living. It may remain beautiful, but it cannot remain original.”

“You’d be hard to live with.”

“Why, Roseanne?”

“Because you’re so determined not to have an illusion.”

“And you—”

“Go on. Say it. I’m so determined to have one.”

“Are we quarreling? I can fix that. Come closer, Roseanne.” Her face changed through delicate shades of feeling to tenderness and to intensity. Abruptly Hugo leaped to his feet.