“Kate!” groaned Buck Daniels, “you’ve let him go!  We’ve all lost him for ever!”

A sob answered him.

“Go call him back,” pleaded Joe.  “He will stay for your sake.”

She whispered:  “I would rather call back the wild geese who flew across the moon.  And they are only beautiful when they are wild!”

“But you’ve lost him, Kate, don’t you understand?”

“The wild geese fly north again in spring,” said Buck, “and he’ll—­”

“Hush!” she said.  “Listen!”

Far off, above the rushing of the wind, they heard the weird whistling, a thrilling and unearthly music.  It was sad with the beauty of the night.  It was joyous with the exultation of the wind.  It might have been the voice of some god who rode the northern storm south, south after the wild geese, south with the untamed.

THE END