“I’ll go to the end of the world and back with you, Hilary. I can’t understand my not knowing all these years that it was you I loved. Those other men…some of them were so nice…I thought I couldn’t marry them because I couldn’t leave Silver Bush…but I know now it was because they weren’t you….”

“Are you really my girl…my girl at last, Pat? You remember how furiously you used to deny it? And your eyes are as brown as ever, Pat. I can’t see in this dimness but I’m sure they are. And I know you look just as much as ever like a creamy rose with gold in its heart. Do you know, Pat, I never got your letter or Judy’s kittens till two months ago? I’ve been in Japan for over a year, studying Japanese architecture. Letters were forwarded but parcels weren’t. And you broke the postal laws shamelessly by tucking your letter inside the parcel. Dearest, let’s go into the old graveyard and sit on a slab. I want to have you wholly to myself for an hour before we go back to Swallowfield. There’s going to be a moonrise tonight…how long is it since we watched a moonrise together?”

“A moonrise tonight.” That was always a magical phrase. Pat was in a maze of happiness as they walked to the old graveyard and sat on Weeping Willy’s flat tombstone. She hadn’t felt like this for years…had believed she could never feel like this again…as if some supernal musician had swept her very soul with his fingers and evolved some ethereal harmony. Was it possible life could always be so rich…so poignant…so significant as this?

“I want to tell you all about the home I have ready for you,” said Hilary. “When I came back from Japan and found the picture and your letter I wanted to come east at once. But that very day when I was prowling on the heights above the city I found a spot…a spot I recognized, although I had never seen it before…a spot that wanted me. There was a spring in the corner with a little brook trickling out…four darling little apple trees in another corner…and a hill of pines behind it, with a river and a mountain within neighborly distance…a faint blue mountain. I don’t know its name but we’ll call it the Hill of the Mist. That spot was just crying for a house to be built on it. So…I built one. It’s waiting for you. It’s a dear house, Pat…fat red chimneys…sharp little gables on the side of the roof…a door that says ‘come in’ and another one that says, ‘stay out.’ It’s painted white and has bottle green shutters like Silver Bush.”