"Good-night, Daisy," I said. "Good-night, Dick," she said, very gently. V.

The week passed quickly for me, leaving but few definite impressions. As I look back to it now I can see the long stretch of beach burning
in the fierce sunlight, the endless meadows, with the glimmer of
water in the distance, the dunes, the twisted cedars, the leagues of
scintillating ocean, rocking, rocking, always rocking. In the starlit
nights the curlew came in from the sand-bars by twos and threes; I
could hear their faint call as I lay in bed thinking. All day long the
little ring-necks whistled from the shore. The plover answered them
from distant lonely inland pools. The great white gulls drifted like
feathers upon the sea. One morning, toward the end of the week, I, strolling along the dunes,
came upon Frisby. He was bill-posting. I caught him red-handed. "This," said I, "must stop. Do you understand, Mr. Frisby?" He stepped back from his work, laying his head on one side, considering
first me, then the bill that he had pasted on one of our big boilers. "Don't like the colour?" he asked. "It goes well on them boilers." "Colour! No, I don't like the colour either. Can't you understand that
there are some people in the world who object to seeing patent-medicine
advertisements scattered over a landscape?" "Hey?" he said perplexed. "Will you kindly remove that advertisement?" I persisted. "Too late," said Frisby; "it's sot." I was too disgusted to speak, but my disgust turned to anger when
I perceived that, as far as the eye could reach, our boilers, lying
from three to four hundred feet apart, were ablaze with yellow and red
posters, extolling the "Eureka Liver Pill Company." "It don't cost 'em nothin'," said Frisby cheerfully; "I done it fur the
fun of it. Purty, ain't it?" "They are Professor Holroyd's boilers," I said, subduing a desire
to beat Frisby with my telescope. "Wait until Miss Holroyd sees this
work." "Don't she like yeller and red?" he demanded anxiously. "You'll find out," said I.

Frisby gaped at his handiwork and then at his yellow dog. After a
moment he mechanically spat on a clamshell and requested Davy to "sic"
it. "Can't you comprehend that you have ruined our pleasure in the
landscape?" I asked more mildly. "I've got some green bills," said Frisby; "I kin stick 'em over the
yeller ones----"

"Confound it!" said I, "it isn't the colour!" "Then," observed Frisby, "you don't like them pills. I've got some
bills of the 'Cropper Bicycle,' and a few of 'Bagley, the Gents'
Tailor----'"

"Frisby," said I, "use them all--paste the whole collection over your
dog and yourself--then walk off the cliff." He sullenly unfolded a green poster, swabbed the boiler with paste,
laid the upper section of the bill upon it, and plastered the whole
bill down with a thwack of his brush. As I walked away I heard him
muttering. Next day Daisy was so horrified that I promised to give Frisby an
ultimatum. I found him with Freda, gazing sentimentally at his work,
and I sent him back to the shop in a hurry, telling Freda at the same
time that she could spend her leisure in providing Mr. Frisby with
sand, soap, and a scrubbing brush. Then I walked on to my post of
observation. I watched until sunset. Daisy came with her father to hear my report,
but there was nothing to tell, and we three walked slowly back to the
house. In the evenings the professor worked on his volumes, the click of his
type-writer sounding faintly behind his closed door. Daisy and I played
chess sometimes; sometimes we played hearts. I don't remember that we
ever finished a game of either--we talked too much. Our discussions covered every topic of interest: we argued
upon politics; we skimmed over literature and music; we settled
international differences; we spoke vaguely of human brotherhood. I say
we slighted no subject of interest--I am wrong; we never spoke of love. Now, love is a matter of interest to ten people out of ten. Why it was
that it did not appear to interest us is as interesting a question
as love itself. We were young, alert, enthusiastic, inquiring. We
eagerly absorbed theories concerning any curious phenomena in Nature,
as intellectual cocktails to stimulate discussion. And yet we did not
discuss love. I do not say that we avoided it. No; the subject was too
completely ignored for even that. And yet we found it very difficult to
pass an hour separated. The professor noticed this, and laughed at us. We were not even embarrassed. Sunday passed in pious contemplation of the ocean. Daisy read a little
in her prayer-book, and the professor threw a cloth over his typewriter
and strolled up and down the sands. He may have been lost in devout
abstraction; he may have been looking for footprints. As for me, my
mind was very serene, and I was more than happy. Daisy read to me a
little for my soul's sake, and the professor came up and said something
cheerful. He also examined the magazine of my Winchester. That night, too, Daisy took her guitar to the sands and sang one or two
Armenian hymns. Unlike us, the Armenians do not take their pleasures
sadly. One of their pleasures is evidently religion. The big moon came up over the dunes and stared at the sea until the
surface of every wave trembled with radiance. A sudden stillness fell
across the world; the wind died out; the foam ran noiselessly across
the beach; the cricket's rune was stilled. I leaned back, dropping one hand upon the sand. It touched another
hand, soft and cool. After a while the other hand moved slightly, and I found that my own
had closed above it. Presently one finger stirred a little--only a
little--for our fingers were interlocked. On the shore the foam-froth bubbled and winked and glimmered in the
moonlight. A star fell from the zenith, showering the night with
incandescent dust. If our fingers lay interlaced beside us, her eyes were calm and serene
as always, wide open, fixed upon the depths of a dark sky. And when her
father rose and spoke to us, she did not withdraw her hand. "Is it late?" she asked dreamily. "It is midnight, little daughter." I stood up, still holding her hand, and aided her to rise. And when, at
the door, I said good-night, she turned and looked at me for a little
while in silence, then passed into her room slowly, with head still
turned toward me. All night long I dreamed of her; and when the east whitened, I sprang
up, the thunder of the ocean in my ears, the strong sea wind blowing
into the open window. "She is asleep," I thought, and I leaned from the window and peered out
into the east. The sea called to me, tossing its thousand arms; the soaring gulls,
dipping, rising, wheeling above the sand-bar, screamed and clamoured
for a playmate. I slipped into my bathing suit, dropped from the window
upon the soft sand, and in a moment had plunged head foremost into the
surf, swimming beneath the waves toward the open sea. Under the tossing ocean the voice of the waters was in my ears--a low,
sweet voice, intimate, mysterious.