The moonlit lake had aroused in her a yearning tenderness for the brother off somewhere in what, Kenny said, Brian called his Tavern of Stars.
"Oh, Kenny," she sighed, "I wish Donald would write!" The wish jarred.

Kenny frowned.

How could he wish it too! And yet, not wishing was disloyal, disloyal to Brian.

Upset, he turned, hurt and sulky.

And presently as Joan, busy with thoughts of the truant brother, continued unaware of the melancholy in his mood that never failed to make its appeal to her tenderness, he began to hum.
Joan looked up.
"What a queer, wild tune!" she exclaimed.