ome village where we might find shelter. The situation
might be thought one of extreme discomfort. There were we three--Aileen,
her maid, and I--sloshing along the running road in black darkness with
the dreary splashing of the rain to emphasize our forlorn condition. Over
unknown paths we travelled on precarious errand. Yet I for one never took
a journey that pleased me more. The mirk night shut out all others, and a
fair face framed in a tartan shawl made my whole world for me. A note of
tenderness not to be defined crept into our relationship. There was a
sweet disorder in her hair and more than once the wind whaffed it into my
face. In walking our fingers touched once and again; greatly daring, mine
slipped over hers, and so like children we went hand in hand. An old
romancer tells quaintly in one of his tales how Love made himself of the
party, and so it was with us that night. I found my answer at last without
words. While the heavens wept our hearts sang. The wine of love ran
through me in exquisite thrills. Every simple word she spoke went to my
heart like sweetest music, and every unconscious touch of her hand was a
caress.

"Tired, Aileen?" I asked. "There is my arm to lean on."

"No," she said, but presently her ringers rested on my sleeve.

"'T will be daylight soon, and see! the scudding clouds are driving away
the rain."

"Yes, Kenneth," she answered, and sighed softly.

"You will think I am a sad blunderer to bring you tramping through the
night."

"I will be thinking you are the good friend."

Too soon the grey dawn broke, for at the first glimmer my love disengaged
herself from my arm. I looked shyly at her, and the glory of her young
beauty filled me. Into her cheeks the raw morning wind had whipped the
red, had flushed her like a radiant Diana. The fresh breeze had outlined
her figure clear as she struggled against it, and the billowing sail was
not more graceful than her harmonious lines.

Out of the sea the sun rose a great ball of flaming fire.

"A good omen for the success of our journey," I cried. "Look!

"'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.'

"The good God grant it prove so, Kenneth, for Malcolm and for all our
friends."

After all youth has its day and will not be denied. We were on an anxious
undertaking of more than doubtful outcome, but save when we remembered to
be sober we trod the primrose path.