ful-, even, glossy furrows of the ploughed fields beyond the lane, and the first faint white star in the crystal-green sky.
The wind of the autumn night was blowing trumpets of fairyland on the hills; and over in Lofty John’s bush was laughter—like the laughter of fauns. Ilse and Perry and Teddy were waiting there for her—they had made a tryst for a twilight romp. She would go to them—presently—not yet. She was so full of rapture that she must write it out before she went back from her world of dreams to the world of reality. Once she would have poured it into a letter to her father. She could no longer do that. But on the table before her lay a brand-new Jimmy-book. She pulled it towards her, took up her pen, and on its first virgin page she wrote.
I am going to write a diary, that it may be published when I die.
the end
