IN WHICH CASSANDRA HEARS THE VOICES, AND DAVID LEASES A FARM

That evening David sat long on his rock holding his flute and watching the thin golden crescent of the new moon floating through a pale amber sky, and one star near its tip slowly sliding down with it toward the deepening horizon.

The glowing sky bending to the purple hilltops — the crescent moon and the lone shining star — the evening breeze singing in the pines above him — the delicate arbutus blossoms hiding near his feet — the call of a bird to its mate, and the faint answering call from some distant shade — the call in his own heart that as yet returned to him unanswered, but with its quiet surety of ultimate response — the joy of these moments perfect in beauty and a more abundant assurance of gladness near at hand —