A dog in some distant farm-yard was baying at the moon.  A whining screech owl sent a faint shudder of superstitious fear over the boy.  For a long time he sat on the fence absorbing the night sounds—­the claque of the frogs, the burring of the crickets, the hum of the water on the mill-dam far down the valley, and the occasional call of some human voice, ringing like a golden bell in the hush of the night.  It was after nine and the boy was deep in his trackless revery.  A woman called,—­

“Win-nee, Win-nee, oh, Winnie.”

The spell upon him was almost too delicious to break; but he roused himself to reply,—­

“Yessum.  All right.”

Then the mother’s voice continued:  “Now wash your feet, Winnie, and wipe ’em dry; don’t come to bed with dirty feet.”

Slowly the boy climbed to the earth.  He shuffled through dew, but his feet were still too dirty.  He stood in the tub of water by the pump, rubbing one foot with the other, and his eyes turned moonward.  The thrall of the night caught him again.  In a hazy stupor he sat on the kitchen step drying his feet.  When he got up, Piggy Pennington gazed for a moment at a star—­a pale star which hovered timidly over the chimney of the home which sheltered his Heart’s Desire.  With the lunacy upon him, he flung to the star a bashful kiss.  Then he grinned foolishly and came to himself with a grunt, as he ran up stairs to his room.  He was ashamed to face the south breeze that fanned his bed.