iousness of herself in the thought of him, she
turned and with divine simplicity of soul advanced to meet him.

Near the centre of the garden there was an open spot where two
pathways crossed; and it was here, emerging from the shrubbery,
that they came in sight of each other. Neither spoke. Neither
made in advance a sign of greeting. When they were a few yards
apart she paused, flushing through her whiteness; and he, dropping
his hat from his hand, stepped quickly forward, gathered her hands
into his and stood looking down on her in silence. He was very
pale and barely controlled himself.

"Isabel!" It was all he could say.

"Rowan!" she answered at length. She spoke under her breath and
stood before him with her head drooping, her eyes on the ground.
Then he released her and she led the way at once out of the garden.

When they had reached the front of the house, sounds of
conversation on the veranda warned them that there were guests, and
without concealing their desire to be alone they passed to a rustic
bench under one of the old trees, standing between the house and
the street; they were used to sitting there; they had known each
other all their lives.

A long time they forced themselves to talk of common and trivial
things, the one great meaning of the hour being avoided by each.
Meanwhile it was growing very late. The children had long before
returned drowsily home held by the hand, their lanterns dropped on
the way or still clung to, torn and darkened. No groups laughed on
the verandas; but gas-jets had been lighted and turned low as
people undressed for bed. The guests of the family had gone. Even
Isabel's grandmother had not been able further to put away sleep
from her plotting brain in order to send out to them a final
inquisitive thought--the last reconnoitring bee of all the
In-gathered hive. Now, at length, as absolutely as he could have
wished, he was alone with her and secure from interruption.

The moon had sunk so low that its rays fell in a silvery stream on
her white figure; only a waving bough of the tree overhead still
brushed with shadow her neck and face. As the evening waned, she
had less to say to him, growing always more silent in new dignity,
more mute with happiness.

He pushed himself abruptly away from her side and bending over
touched his lips reverently to the back of one of her hands, as
they lay on the shawl in her lap.

"Isabel," and then he hesitated.

"Yes,"