“I like your grandfather and your grandmother,” he said a little formally. “Guess I just like your family.”

“You didn’t at first.”

“I know. Then I was young and foolish,” and he laughed. “Seems like I’ve had a college education in a month.”

“Joel, you are so dear,” Cathy said, looking up at the trees and the sky as if she were speaking to them, including the world in the dearness of Joel.

“Going to miss me?”

“Dont.”

“We’ll write. You’ll write poems, Cathy … won’t you?”

“Don’t,” she said again. They had reached the gates. “Joel.”

“What?”

“It’s nearly suppertime, and I guess I’d better go in alone.”

“O.K.” He put the arbutus into her hands roughly. “See you tomorrow.” And he ran off into the dark—happy? angry?

And Cathy stood there for a moment between worlds before she climbed slowly up to the Ark, to the firelight, to the familiar and safe. What had Joel meant about “landing”? They had not landed. They had stayed in suspense, trying to feel as they had felt a week ago. They had not mentioned the army. That word was a sort of taboo, Cathy felt. It was what they had to keep away, not to melt into one great tearing, terrible good-by.

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—May 16

I’m writing this on my lap by the fire. Cornelius is safe in bed, but for some reason I wanted to come down here alone. The Ark is very still. I am longing so to see Olivia.… Cathy seemed very subdued at supper. I wonder whether I have kept hands off unwisely. I felt—and Cornelius agreed—that it was her first real love and we did not want to loom over her. Now I wonder whether she would not have been relieved to have some limits set. I notice that she hasn’t asked Joel up to her room these last days, and if she has been the one to make that decision, it is hard, of course.

This afternoon they went arbutus-hunting and came back with an exquisite bunch. Cathy gave it to me, but she didn’t look happy and ran upstairs almost at once instead of coming to be with Cornelius and me while we had our drink.