her arms--those thin arms which he knew so well--and
that waist were clothed in a puritanic frock of some blue material.
His happiness thrilled him, and he lay staring into the darkness till
the darkness withered, and the lines of the room appeared--the
wardrobe, the wash-hand-stand, and then the letter. He rose from his
bed. In all-pervading grayness the world lay as if dead; not a whiff
of smoke ascended, not a bird had yet begun, and the river, like a
sheet of zinc, swirled between its low banks.

"God! it is worse than the moonlight!" thought Mike, and went back to
bed. But he could not rest, and when he went again to the window
there was a faint flush in the sky's cheek; and then a bar of rose
pierced the heavy ridge of clouds that hung above the woodland.

"An omen! I will post her letter in the sunrise." And conscious of
the folly, but unable to subdue that desire of romance so inveterate
in him, he considered how he might leave the house. He remembered,
and with pleasure, that he could not pass down the staircase without
disturbing the dog, and he thought of the prolonged barking that
would begin the moment he touched the chain on the front door. He
would have to get out of the window; but the window was twenty feet
from the ground. "A rope! I have no rope! How absurd!" he thought,
and, rejoicing in the absurdity, he drew a sheet from the bed and
made it fast. Going to Lily through a window seemed to relieve
marriage of some of its shame.

"Life wouldn't be complete without her. Yes, that's just it; that
sums it up completely; curious I did not think of that before. It
would have saved such a lot. Yes, life would not be complete without
her. The problem is solved," and he dropped the letter as easily as
if it had been a note asking for seats in the theatre. "I'm married,"
he said. "Good heavens! how strange it seems. I shall have to give
her a ring, and buy furniture. I had forgotten! ... No difficulty
about that now. We shall go to my place in Berkshire."

But he could not go back to bed, and he walked down to the river, his
fine figure swinging beautifully distinct in his light clothing. The
dawn wind thrilled in his chest, for he had only a light coat over
the tasselled silk night-shirt; and the dew drenched his feet as he
swung along the pathway to the river. The old willow was full of
small birds; they sat ruffling their feathers, and when Mike sprang
into the boat they flew through the gray light, taki