CHAPTER XIII

I Emily was reading by the window of her room when she heard it—reading Alice Meynell’s strange poem, “Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age,” and thrilling mystically to its strange prophecies. Outside dusk falling over the old New Moon garden; and clear through the dusk came the two high notes and the long low one of Teddy’s old whistle in Lofty John’s bush—the old, old call by which he had so often summoned her in the twilights of long ago. Emily’s book fell unheeded to the floor. She stood up, mist-pale, her ey…