One

They had been walking side by side along the old wood road behind the house and now, as they entered the broad field which the wood held at its centre, they moved apart. Edrita began carving a path for herself through the high grass, above him, to his right, and he took a leftward, lower course. Soon they were several hundred feet apart. The field was on a slope, surrounded by low hills of white pine and swampwood, and the road, when it entered the field, dissolved for a while in the grass. It reappeared, he remembered, somewhere on the other side of the field through a barely discernible opening in the trees, and continued down to the river. He wondered whether he could find that opening now. His father had christened this field, long ago, the Enchanted Valley, and he and Edrita had always called it that as children. It still possessed an air, he thought, of being somehow bewitched. Its location had an illogic that made it seem magical—hollowed, as it was, for no clear human reason out of the encircling miles of trees.

He stopped now and turned to watch Edrita. She was a slim brown figure moving steadily away from him across the dry field towards a solitary hemlock tree that stood at the field’s uppermost corner. It was early spring, April, and the afternoon air was chilly. Edrita had put on, for their walk, her old beaver coat that was cut in a college-girl style with a big turn-up collar, deep cuffs, and slash pockets. He remembered this coat, or ones like it, from numberless football games. He was wearing an old Army field jacket that he had found in his closet and that he had forgotten ever owning, and doeskin trousers. He watched her for a moment, thinking she might turn, but when she did not turn he suddenly did not want her to turn and see him following her with his eyes like this, and so he turned quickly away, hands in his pockets, and continued in the direction he had been going. They walked on like this, in different directions, pretending to be oblivious of each other. Then he heard her calling him: “Hugh!”

He turned and waved to her.

“Come on up here!”

He stood hesitantly, then started trudging up the hill towards her. He was a little lame. “A little lame,” at least, was the way he always thought of it and, when it was necessary to, described it. He did not think of himself as having a limp, and, in the years since the polio, when he had been twelve, he had trained himself, through a trick of walking, a trick of throwing his weight a bit more to one side than to the other, to compensate for the fact that one leg was three-quarters of an inch shorter than the other, so that he did not feel that, technically, he did limp. It was a loping stride that bothered him mostly after long walks on city sidewalks, that fazed him only momentarily when he encountered such familiar obstacles as revolving doors, and that was hardly noticeable here, coming across the field whose contours he had known all his life. Still, when he reached her on her summit by the hemlock, he was a little out of breath, and to cover it he reached for a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

“Remember this place?” she asked.

“Of course I do,” he said.

“We were going to build a house here.”

“Yes.”

“It looks different, though,” she said. “It looks smaller. It wouldn’t hold much of a house.”

“It’s not the world’s greatest building lot,” he said. “Miles from everything.”

“Oh, but that was what we liked about it. That there wouldn’t be anybody for miles and miles around.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You can see the river still,” she pointed.

“Yes.”

“But the trees are taller. Look at this little hemlock tree. Remember when we could jump over it? Now it’s over our heads.”

He nodded.

“How many years has it been, Hugh?” she asked him.

“Ten or eleven, I guess,” he said.

“Oh, since we’ve been here together it’s been more than that. Closer to fifteen I’d say.”

“Yes, I guess it has.”

She was smiling up at him and her breath, in the cold air, emerged in little smoky clouds. “Yes,” she said, and reaching up with her finger touched him just above the ear. “We’re not getting any younger, Hugh. I see grey hairs.”

He laughed. “They’re from worry, not old age,” he said.

“Never mind, I’ve got a few of those myself,” she said. “I simply have a very clever hairdresser.”

“Well, we’re not exactly antiques,” he said.

“No, but—well, over thirty. We’ve passed that great barrier age. No use denying it, Hugh.”

“No,” he smiled, “no use denying it.”

“I wonder,” she said, looking around. “Did we ever find out who this land belonged to? Your family or mine?”

“I don’t think we ever knew,” he said. “Nobody ever cared way back here where the property line went.”

“Well, if we’d married each other it wouldn’t have mattered, would it?” she said.

“If we’d married each other, this would hardly have been the smartest place to live, would it? Right in both our families’ back yards?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t think about things like that then.”

“I guess not,” he said.

“Or if we did, we thought: How wonderful that none of them could see us, way back here. It would be like a hide-out. None of the Everetts or the Careys would be able to see what we were doing.”

“Yes,” he said.

They stood there silently for a moment, looking at the dark curve of the river between the bare tops of trees. Edrita laughed. “You do remember, I hope, that we were always going to marry each other,” she said.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Sure, I remember.”

“Remember what the other kids in town used to say about our families?” she said. “Every time we went anywhere together, somebody would say, ‘The Everetts and the Careys, they think that they’re the berries.’”

“Yes,” he said, “and I never knew why they said that.”

“Oh, don’t you? I do.”

“Why?”

“Because the Everetts and the Careys did think they were the berries, of course. My family always thought they were the berries and so did yours.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “We never tried to lord it over anybody.”

“I’m not talking about lording it over anybody. What I mean is, well, you and Pansy and I went away to fancy boarding-schools and colleges and went to all the parties in New York. None of the other kids did things like that.”

“Well, that was just because—”

“It was just because we considered ourselves a little better than everybody else, that’s all. Don’t kid yourself about that, darling.”

He looked at her and wondered if she was laughing at him. Her “darling” was almost a mocking darling, the casual darling of a sophisticated young society woman who called everybody “darling.” “Well,” he said, “I don’t see anything wrong with people wanting to give their children a proper education.”

“Now that,” she said, “sounds stuffy, darling.” Then she laughed. “But it only proves my point,” she said. “Anyway, it’s a good thing the Everetts and the Careys never married each other.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, “I sometimes think it’s too bad my married name had to be Smith. Edrita Everett sounds better, don’t you think? I always thought Edrita Everett was a more glamorous-sounding name. I used to think I’d keep that name if I ever became a movie star. I used to want to be a movie star. Either that or a spy. After I gave up wanting to be a nurse.”

“Edrita Everett would be a good name for either a spy or a movie star,” he said.

“Here I am now, just plain Mrs. Robert Smith, housewife. Even Edrita Carey would have had more style.”

“How is Bob?” he asked her, realising that she had not mentioned her husband since they had had their little reunion earlier this afternoon.

“Oh, Bob’s fine. Working hard. Too busy with the pickle business to make this trip with me. It wouldn’t be a picnic without pickles, you know. And we’re coming fast into the picnic season. More and more pickles have to be potted for the picnics.”

“Of course,” he laughed. “Of course.”

“Isn’t it dreadful? I mean what a dreadful business to be in. When I get back here I always find myself apologising for it. But in Chicago you don’t need to apologise for being in pickles. Bob’s in the biggest pickle-packing plant in Illinois. He’s their original Peter Piper.”

“No need to apologise for being in pickles,” he said. “Everybody loves pickles.”

“It’s a family business,” she said. “The brand they make is called ‘Ma Smith’s Pickles.’ I’m Ma Smith. Thank God they’re not distributed here in the East. I’d never be able to live it down.” He laughed again and suddenly her tone became more defensive. “But seriously,” she said, “it’s an excellent business, and Bob’s been a wonderful husband. We’ve been very happy. We’ve bought a new house out in Lake Forest, and our little Patty’s going to kindergarten there. Patty’s five now. I have a wonderful nurse for her—everything I want.”

“I’ve never seen Patty,” he said.

“That’s right, you haven’t,” she said. “After all, we haven’t seen each other for ten years. Well, I have some pictures of her back at the house, some snapshots I brought to show Mother. I’ll show them to you if you’d like. Also some snapshots of our new house. We’re very happy there.”

“I’m glad,” he said. He was beginning to feel easier with her now.

She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go down and look at the brook,” she said.

They started down the hill towards the lower border of trees.

“How long will you be staying?” he asked her.

“Two weeks, I think. At least that’s what I plan. How about you?”

“Well, my plans are still a little up in the air, as I told you.”

“Oh, yes. Well, isn’t it fun we both turned up here, together? I suppose if I told Bob about it he’d think we planned it that way. An illicit reunion. Your wife would probably think so too.”

“Yes,” he said. “But we didn’t.”

“No.” She laughed. “And that’s too bad, isn’t it? It’s too bad we didn’t plan it that way. That would have given them something to be jealous about, and that would have been good for them, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said.

“Hugh,” she said, “why did you come back?”

“Just for a visit,” he said.

“But you haven’t come back for many visits like this, have you, in the last few years?”

“Oh, I’ve been back. For week-ends and things.”

“Yes, for week-ends and things. But not for an—an extended visit like this one. And all alone—without Anne. Have you?”

“No,” he said, not looking at her. “I suppose not.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “as I told you, I’ve sold my share in the agency, and I’m more or less between jobs. I thought that home would be as good a place as any to come to—to think things over, figure out exactly what my next step is going to be.”

“Oh,” she said, “I see.”

“So that’s about it,” he said.

It wasn’t quite true, he thought. But it would do, for now, for an explanation—for Edrita.

“How is Anne?” Edrita asked him.

“Anne is just fine.”

(“Please don’t bring Anne with you,” his mother had said to him on the telephone. “Please—let’s just make it an old-fashioned, homey little visit and talk. Just the two of us. Just the three of us—you, your father, and I. Just ourselves.”)

“And you and I,” Edrita said, “we’d never have been happy married to each other, would we? We’d have been a perfectly terrible married couple. It would have lasted—oh, I’d say it would have lasted three months at the most.” Her arm, in the soft beaver fur, was warm against his side.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, it’s true,” she said. “Because I’ve thought about it now and then, wondered about it, how it would have been. The trouble with us was that we were too much alike. People should marry opposites. You and I, growing up together—we were too much like brother and sister. We knew each other’s glaring faults too well.”

“Do you really think so, Edrita?”

“I know so. How old were we when we gave up the idea? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen or eighteen, I guess.”

“Yes. The perfect age to give it up. We gave up the idea just in time, just before the age when people get too deeply into things—so deeply that they can never get out. Thank God we saw the light when we did. You’re happy now, and I’m happy now. We’d never have been happy together.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Your mother was right about it.”

“What did my mother have to do with it?”

“Don’t you remember? Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “We grew up, got over it. And we did the right thing. Bob gave me something you never could have given me.”

“What is that?” he asked her, looking at her.

She was frowning. “Security,” she said.

“Security? My God, I’m no pauper.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” she said. “I don’t mean money. Security isn’t money. It’s—”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s—well, it’s continuity, I suppose. Steadfastness.”

“And I couldn’t have given you that?”

“Oh, what I mean is we’re both too erratic. Don’t you think? Both our families are too erratic. We’re too much concerned with everybody being an individual. We’re always flying off on our own, and doing what we want, and—”

“If by security you mean money—” he began.

“But security is not money, Hugh. My God, it just isn’t. Oh, I know you’ve got money. I know you’ve just sold your business in New York for some fantastic sum, and you’re rich in your own right now. That isn’t the point. The point is—”

“What is the point?”

“Security isn’t money,” she repeated. “It isn’t just that.” Then she said, “Oh, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m talking in circles. Forget it.”

They walked very slowly, side by side, saying nothing.

Then she said, “The point is that we’re two old friends now, two dear old friends who’ve been out of touch for a while. Here I am, a Middle Western housewife, and here you are—a fabulously successful advertising man—”

“You’re making me sound pretty glamorous,” he said.

“It is glamorous,” she said. And then, “You know, when I first heard that you owned an advertising agency, it surprised me a little. Years ago, you wanted to go to journalism school.”

“Oh, I gave up that idea a long time ago,” he said. “It just wasn’t practical.”

“Well, advertising and newspaper work—they’re pretty much the same sort of thing, aren’t they?”

“Not quite the same,” he said, “but similar.”

“But you’ve enjoyed advertising.”

“Yes, very much,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, I think it’s one of the most exciting businesses in the world,” he said. “Oh, in the beginning, I guess I thought it was sort of the second-best choice. But there are rewards in any job—just in knowing you’re doing a good job, for one thing. And I could rationalise and say that it really was the same sort of thing. Advertising is giving news—though it’s news about products, not about events.”

“Yes. And advertising is so much more lucrative, isn’t it?” she said.

“Well, there’s that, too.”

“Isn’t it funny how things work out?” she said. “How our dreams change? Or how they get changed—by circumstances.”

He said nothing. He was not only thinking how funny it was, the way things worked out, but also how strange it was that ten years of her life had gone by about which he knew almost nothing; that she had a husband whom he had met exactly twice—first at her wedding in 1951 and next, three or four years later, on Fifth Avenue in New York. They had encountered each other, walking in opposite directions down the street, on their separate ways to luncheon appointments in the city, had recognised each other, and had stopped to chat for a minute or two, saying, “How’s Edrita?” “Fine.” “Give her my best,” “We’re expecting in February.” “No kidding? That’s wonderful! Well, be sure to give her my best.” “I will, Hugh, sure thing.” That had been all. And now she had a baby he had never seen, and lived in a house he had never been in. It was curious, thinking of that great gap of years—a whole third, perhaps, of her life—during which she had gone about the business of living, joining clubs, having the baby, giving dinner parties, taking trips, meeting people about whom he knew nothing, and would probably never know very much. Curious because, of course, for seventeen or eighteen years of their lives they had seen each other almost literally every day. Their houses were just half a mile apart, in sight of each other. When one of them had come to the front door, or turned on a light in his room, the other had been able to see it (that opened door, that sudden light), and there had been nothing of their comings and goings that both of them had not known. They had shared everything, had no secrets from each other.

And, of course, it seemed equally strange to think that the same ten years had gone by in his life, and that his years were as unknown to her as hers were to him. He wondered how much the years had changed them both. Was it possible that they were still the same two people now that they had once been? When he had seen her first this afternoon, after all that time—not at all expecting to find her here, in Connecticut—he had had some trouble turning her face back into the face of the girl he had known ten years ago. Her hair was still brown and wavy, her nose was still straight and thin, her eyes were still heavy-lashed and dark, but there were so many new and different things about her. There was a new smile, and a new way she seemed to have of working her lips up and down over her teeth as she talked, new little nervous facial mannerisms and lines—not lines of age, really, but of something else. It was hard to define what the tiny lines meant. And there was a practised archness, a new lift of her eyebrows as she looked at him. She was still beautiful, but not pretty any more—the kind of prettiness, at least, that had once made her Queen of the Dartmouth Winter Carnival. Her beauty now was a wearier sort of beauty. Her face was thinner, under more cosmetics, and her short, fashionable haircut was not at all like the hair that had had to be lifted gently out of a coat collar when he helped her into a coat in the old days. He remembered suddenly how she had always liked to have him lift and arrange her hair over a coat collar. And noticing these new things about her made him wonder now what new things she saw in him. Then, as if she had been reading his thoughts, she said, “Hugh, you haven’t told me if I’ve changed,” and her hand on his sleeve pulled him back and stopped him at the edge of the wood.

He smiled at her. “Everybody changes,” he said.

Her face, turned up to him, was serious. “Yes, but how?” she asked him. “How have I changed? Am I still beautiful?”

“Yes, you’re still beautiful,” he said. “You’re still Edrita Everett.”

She seemed pleased at this. “You mean I’d still make a good movie star?” she asked him, smiling.

“Or a good spy,” he said.

“But I’m older, sadder, wiser, aren’t I?” she said.

“I guess we both are. Those grey hairs you spotted.”

“But you haven’t changed much, Hugh. Not really. Not nearly as much as I’d thought you might.”

“You mean you really thought about it?”

“Of course. I’ve often wondered what you’d look like, if we met again. After all, we grew up together.”

“Yes.”

And, once again, she seemed to have been reading his thoughts. “We have so much ground to cover, don’t we?” she said. “So much has happened. Some day soon we’ll have to sit down and have a long talk. Fill in on the whole ten years. Go through them day by day.”

“Do you think we’d find them that exciting? Aren’t you afraid we’d just bore each other to death?”

“No,” she said. “No. Would you like to kiss me, Hugh?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Your wife wouldn’t mind, would she?”

“No.” And he couldn’t help but smile at how quickly and glibly he had answered this question, and made up Anne’s mind for her.

“Bob wouldn’t mind. Nobody would mind.”

“Or even know,” he said, and kissed her.

They separated, and she said, “A brotherly kiss.”

And he said, “Yes.” Though it had not been a brotherly kiss, not really.

“Do you know why I asked you to do that? Because we always used to kiss each other before we walked into these woods together, when we were children. Remember?”

“In case we lost each other in the forest.”

“Yes, and it was always when we were on our way home. As we are now. It was a good-bye kiss. Now where’s the path? There used to be a path through here.”

They started along the edge of the wood, looking for the path.

“When we had horses, I remember my mother cut a lot of bridle paths through the woods,” he said. “I wonder what’s happened to them now? I suppose they’re all overgrown.”

“Your mother could cut her way through anything, couldn’t she?” she said.

“What do you mean by that? You sound as though you didn’t like her.”

“Oh, I love her. Everybody loves your mother,” she said.

“I guess she is pretty magnificent,” he said.

“Yes, magnificent.”

“Have you been to see her since you’ve been home?”

“No, not yet,” she said.

“She’d want to see you, I know. Why not drop by?”

“Perhaps I shall.”

“She knows you’re here.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know she does. As a matter of fact, she called me and asked me to come to dinner to-night.”

“Oh, are you coming?”

“Here’s an opening,” she said, pointing. “We can go through here.” And then, “No, I’m sorry I can’t.”

“Can’t you? Why not?”

She flashed a quick look at him. “I just can’t, that’s all,” she said. “I told her I was sorry.”

“Going somewhere else?”

“Do I have to have an excuse?” she asked him. “Other than that I can’t?”

“No, I don’t suppose so,” he said.

“What was the excuse I used to give you whenever I couldn’t go out with you years ago?” she asked him, smiling.

“Let’s see—well, one was that you had to wash your hair that night.”

“Yes,” she said, still smiling. “So let’s say I have to wash my hair to-night.”

“All right. You win,” he said. And then, as he lifted a branch and started to duck into the wood, he said, “Better let me go first, Edrita, and feel out the path.”

“Don’t snap twigs in my face,” she said. “Just don’t do that. When we used to come here as children I hated to let you go first. You were always snapping twigs in my face.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and he started into the trees with her following a little way behind.

“Hugh,” she said, “you’ve never had children, have you?”

“No,” he said, “we never have.” He stopped for a moment, briefly trying to locate himself in the wood. Then he remembered, knew which way to go, and started ahead again.

Every stretch of woods has a personality of its own, something about it that makes it particular and different from any other. This section, all through here, was second growth. Someone, long ago, before either her or his family’s time, had for some reason cut down all the first stand of trees, or perhaps they had burned; no one knew. But anyway, where the wood was now, there had once been fields or pasture. You could tell because, walking through, you kept encountering old stone walls tumbling into disrepair and, in the deepest undergrowth, you sometimes came upon old twisted and rusting shards of barbed wire. Barbed wire indicated that cows had been kept here once, but you couldn’t be sure. Rutted trails here and there were evidence of long-ago wagon paths which had, when you explored them, a certain rough symmetry to them and a kind of logic. They spread out through the valley in a pattern of city blocks. All of the more passable ones had been given names by the two families—the old river road was what they called one, and another was known as the old foundation road because it led past the crumbled remains of what at one time must have been a farmhouse. And there was the brook road, which ran alongside one of the river’s tributaries, and there was the pond road and the willow road. They were coming up to the brook road now—so densely thicketed that only an eye that knew it would recognise it as ever having been a road at all—and the brook would be just beyond it.

It was a sunny wood, being new growth, and light spattered all through it between the branches of scrub oak and pine and birch and ironwood, and, underneath, it was a wood blanketed with moss and fern and fallen trunks of trees so overgrown with grass that they looked like (and he and Edrita had once pretended that they really were) Indian graves. And everywhere, among the fallen trees, the ground protruded with the round forms of rocks so covered with grey lichens that they looked soft as pillows, and the patches of earth between the rocks were apt to be wet and swampy especially now, at this time of year, in spring. Only occasionally in the wood, among all the new growth, was there a tall old tree, dead or dying, with hard pancake mushrooms climbing up its bark like jutting steps of a stair.

It was slow going through the wood, and each step involved a little test of the stepping-place. If this had ever been a pasture, Hugh thought, it must have been a very poor one, and perhaps this was why the whole enterprise with its complex of trails and roads had been abandoned and given back to nature, to make of it whatever random madness nature chose. Deep in the woods, in spring, they had gone on wildflower searches—he, his brother and sister, and Edrita—from the time in early spring (it was still too early yet)when the first red horns of skunk cabbage showed themselves above the ground. There had always been a great variety of wildflowers here: cowslip and lady’s-slipper and arbutus and bloodroot, forked adder’s-tongue, jack-in-the-pulpit, and wild yellow violets. Later on, in summer, you could find clusters of flamboyant tiger lilies along the brook’s edge. He remembered picking the flowers and bringing them home in sticky, wilting handfuls, and his mother saying, “But they look so beautiful where they’re growing, darling. Why do you pick them? They never last in the house.” And it had always seemed useless to explain to her that no amount of picking would ever deplete the store of flowers that bloomed, year after year, in the wood’s vast garden.

They came now, on the other side of the brook road, to the brook itself—to the place between three large boulders where the water ran deep and where, in summer, they had sometimes gone to swim. They had even given this place the affectionate name of the Swimming Hole, though the swimming had never been very good there. The pool had a loose and silty bottom and, after a few minutes’ splashing around, the water became dark and muddy and they emerged from it with a fine, drying layer of dirt on their bodies and sometimes with shiny, welt-shaped black bloodsuckers fastened adhesively to their legs. They had swum naked there—he and Edrita. And it had been in the days when it had been fun to be naked in the woods. Oh, to be sure, there had been a predictable amount of interested examination of each other’s bodies, certain inevitable comparisons. But that, at nine or ten or eleven years old, had not really been the point. He remembered one time, when they had been swimming this way, his mother and Edrita’s mother had come through the woods on horses—it had been in the days when his mother still rode a lot. The mothers had found them that way but, at the time, there had been no scolding, no reproof. His mother and Mrs. Everett had simply suggested that they both put their clothes back on now and come home; it was almost time for lunch. That was all. But later he had overheard the two mothers talking about it. The encounter had disconcerted Edrita’s mother more than it had his. His mother had just laughed and said, “Don’t be silly, Clara! They’re little children.” And when Clara Everett had said, “Yes, but they were stark naked and looking at each other,” his mother had said, “Why shouldn’t they? Everybody adores nakedness. I do. Don’t you?”

He stood now on one of the three round rocks, looking at the water that curled between them, and Edrita came up behind him.

“It looks so small,” she said. “Doesn’t it look small? It’s funny, I always remembered this as being such a big pool. But it’s tiny, isn’t it?”

“Everything looks different when you come back to it,” he said.

“How did we ever fit in it together?” she laughed.

“Remember how muddy it used to get?”

“Where did we build the little islands?” she asked. “Remember the little islands?”

He remembered. They were islands of sand and mud and twigs and brook pebbles, shaped along a sandy stretch of the brook’s bank—islands that always washed away during the night and had to be built again each morning—islands with harbours and marinas and lighthouses and channels between them where paper boats could be sailed back and forth. “It was up there a little way,” he said, and pointed. “Shall we see if we can find the place?”

“Oh, I don’t think I can make it, Hugh,” she said. “I’ve almost ruined this pair of heels already.”

“You should know better than to wear those for a walk in the woods.”

“I know. That’s what happens when you become a dignified Chicago matron. You forget what walking in the woods is like.”

“What else did we do here?” he said.

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t remember. But it seems as though we used to come here every day. We did—oh, everything.”

“I built a bridge out of birch logs across these rocks,” he said.

“Yes. I remember the bridge. Did we ever go all the way down the brook?”

“To where it joins the river? Of course we did.”

“Did we? Are you sure? I remember seeing it—where it joins the river—from the river. But did we ever explore the brook all the way down to its mouth? I don’t think we ever did, and I wonder why we didn’t.”

“I’m sure we did,” he said. “We must have. There were some big rocks you passed—remember? Like cliffs?”

“No, the cliffs are farther up,” she said. “See? My memory is better than yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Remember—we used to think those cliffs were higher than the Grand Canyon? But they’d look small now, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes. We’ve seen the real Grand Canyon since,” he said.

“Oh, Hugh!” she said, and for a minute her voice sounded like a wail, as though she might be going to cry, and her eyes were so bright that he wondered if there were tears in them. “Remember it?” she said. “Remember how it was? Do you suppose any other children come here now?”

“I don’t know. I guess not,” he said.

She was looking at him intently and, though he was looking at the rushing water between the rocks, he could feel her eyes on him. “I keep thinking how very odd it is,” she said slowly, “that we should both have turned up here at the same time. Isn’t it the oddest thing? You had no idea I’d be here, did you?”

“None at all—till I heard about it last night.”

“I wonder—could it have been a kind of thought transference, do you think?”

He turned now and smiled at her, and she was smiling.

“Do you think so, Hugh?” she repeated.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Edrita. Not on my part anyway. You see, I hadn’t planned to come at all until the day before yesterday, until Monday. I didn’t even want to come home, I—”

“You didn’t? But I thought you said—”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I don’t mean that. I wanted to come, but—”

“But what?” she asked. And then, more quietly, she said, “I suppose you mean that it was really your mother who wanted you to come home.”

“She suggested it, yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re trying to say that it isn’t any of my business why you came here,” she said. “And you’re right, of course. It isn’t.”

“I didn’t mean that, Edrita,” he said. “I didn’t mean that at all, honestly.”

“Then you’re not—you’re not sorry you found me here too?”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure your mother is.”

“Edrita, can’t you ever forget all that old business?”

“Why should I? Why should I forget it? Anyway, it’s true, isn’t it—about how she feels?”

“Of course not. She asked you for dinner, didn’t she?”

“Yes. Out of courtesy. Out of politeness. Because she knew my family would think it was awfully peculiar of her, and rude, if she didn’t.”

“Now, that just is not true,” he said.

“Well,” she said, smiling again, “it doesn’t make any difference, does it? As long as you’re glad I’m here, that’s all I care about. And I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad we’re both here—back at our rocks, back by our brook.”

But suddenly he didn’t want to think any more about why he had come here, or about the woods, or about the days when they had been children, or about the rocks or the brook—except how they were going to get across it now, and get home. He was not sorry he had found her here, not sorry they had taken this walk. But meeting her like this was turning his homecoming into a different sort of thing, not at all what he had expected, or even wanted. She seemed to have come jabbing back into his life, making him remember things he had forgotten, asking him questions about things he had not thought about for years and to which he was not at all sure he knew the answers any more. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go. It’ll be getting dark soon.” And he decided to leap, the way he used to, across the brook from one rock to another. He made it, and knew by the way he landed on the other side that he had made it, but the smooth soles of his shoes slipped for a terrifying moment on the rock’s surface, and he almost fell, almost slid with a splash into the icy water. But he had an edge of rock with both hands, and managed to pull himself upright on the other side. “Hugh?” she said. “Are you all right?” And he knew that she was thinking, as people always did when he tried a thing like that, of his leg, of his lameness.

“Fine,” he said easily. “How about you? Think you can make it?”

“I’ll have to take off these damn’ shoes,” she said. Removing them, she handed them across the brook to him, and he placed them on the ground. “Now,” he said, “give me your hand.”

He gave her both hands, leaning across the water towards her, and she reached for them and seized them tightly. Then, for a pendulous moment, the two of them were arched across the water, balanced, suspended like a bridge themselves above it. They tottered there, and she extended one stockinged foot towards the rock on the other side where he was standing. “I’ve got this tight skirt!” she cried. “Oh, I don’t think I can make it! Oh, I can’t!” But he had her by the hands and he pulled her, and she jumped, awkwardly, towards him and landed beside him on the rock with a little gasp. He held her tightly as she swayed, still unsteady, and helped her up the rock’s side to a flatter plane as suddenly, with a deep wrench of memory, he saw her again, tanned and long-legged and naked, leaping across the brook in the sunlight of an afternoon, her brown hair standing out in little peaks about her neck and shoulders, her body glistening with thousands of drops of water.

Apparently something of the same sort of memory had swept her too, for she said nothing more as he helped her down from the rock, helped her into her shoes again, and started with her along the wooded path that led up the other side of the valley towards their houses.