There
was bridal-wreath billowing above stone fences, snow-balls, pale globes
among the green, beds of iris, purple-black beneath the moon.
They forded a stream--more silver, and a silver road after that.
"Where are we going?" Jean breathed.
"I know a house--"
It was a little house set on top of a hill, where indeed no little house
should be set, for little houses should nestle, protected by the slopes
back of them. But this little house was set up there for the view--the
Monument a spectral shaft, miles away, the Potomac broadening out beyond
it, the old trees of the Park sleeping between. This was what the little
house saw by night; it saw more than that by day.
It was not an empty house. One window was lighted, a square of gold in a
lower room.
They did not know who lived in the house. They did not care. For the
moment it was theirs. Leaving the car, they sat on the grass and
surveyed their property.
"Of course it is ours," Jean said, "and when you are over there, you can
think of it with the moon shining on it."
"I like the sloping roof," her lover took up the refrain, "and the big
chimney and the wide windows.
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