e gossipy character paragraphed him smartly, using their asterisks to
remove all doubt as to who was meant. Before such an evening as this had
ever crossed her maiden's dreams, Carlisle Heth had read of Hugo
Canning....

It was a bad throat, a God-given touch of bronchitis or whatnot, that
had sent the great young man south. This was known through Willie Kerr,
and other private sources. Also, that he would remain with his Payne
cousins through the following week; and in December might possibly
return from the Carolinas or Florida for a few days' riding with the
Hunt Club. Meantime he was here: and it was but Saturday, mid-evening,
and a whole beautiful Sunday lay ahead....

From the piazza, after a turn or two, Miss Heth and Mr. Canning
sauntered on to a little summer-house, which stood on the hotel
front-lawn, not far from the piazza end. She had hesitated when he
commended the pretty bower; but it was really the discreetest spot
imaginable, under the public eye in all directions, and undoubtedly
commanding a perfect view of the moonlight on the water, precisely as he
pointed out.

In this retreat, "What a heavenly night!" exclaimed Miss Heth.

Canning, still standing, looked abroad upon a scene of dim beauty,
gentle airs, and faint bright light. "Now that you say it," he replied,
"it is. But depend on it, I should never have admitted it quarter of an
hour ago."

"Oh! But isn't it rather tedious to deny what's so beautifully plain?"

"Should you say that tedious is the word? A better man than I denied his
Lord."

"Yes," said Carlisle, not absolutely dead-sure of the allusion, "but he
was frightened, wasn't he, or something?"

"And I was lonely. Loneliness beats fear hollow for making the world
look out of whack."

"Doesn't it? And is there a lonesomer place on the globe than a summer
resort out of season?"

"But we were speaking of fifteen minutes ago, were we not?" said
Canning, and sat down beside her on the rustic bench.

The walls of this little summer-house were largely myth, and lattice for
the rest. Through the interstices the dim brightness of the moon misted
in, and the multitudinous rays from the hotel. There reached them the
murmur of voices, the languorous lap of water. A serene and reassuring
scene it surely was; there was no menace in the night's silvern
calmness, no shadow of stalking trouble....

Carlisle imagined Mr. Canning to be capable of a rapid advance at his
desire, and was oppose