Leaves were yellowing; the potato-plants had grown to full height and stood in flower; the shooting season came round again; I shot hare and ptarmigan and grouse; one day I shot an eagle. Calm, open sky, cool nights, many clear, clear tones and dear sounds in the woods and fields. The earth was resting, vast and peaceful . . .

“I have not heard anything from Herr Mack about the two guillemots I shot,” I said to the Doctor.

“You can thank Edwarda for that,” he said. “I know. I heard that she set herself against it.”

“I do not thank her for it,” said I . . .

Indian summer — Indian summer. The stars lay like belts in through the yellowing woods; a new star came every day. The moon showed like a shadow; a shadow of gold dipped in silver . . .

“Heaven help you, Eva, are you married?”

“Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know.”

She pressed my hand silently.

“God help you, child, what are we to do now?” “What you will. Perhaps you are not going away just yet; I will be happy as long as you are here.”

“No, Eva.”

“Yes, yes — only as long as you are here.”

She looked forsaken, kept pressing my hand.

“No, Eva. Go — never any more!”

* * * * *

Nights pass and days come — three days already since this last talk. Eva comes by with a load. How much wood has that child carried home from the forest this summer alone?

“Set the load down, Eva, and let me see if your eyes are as blue as ever.”

Her eyes were red.

“No — smile again, Eva! I can resist no more; I am your, I am yours . . . &rdq............