ead before him.
He had the right and cared nothing for it, while the man who did care,
stood there shamefaced, all at once feeling himself an intruder in a
sacred place.

He put the photograph back, face down, as it had been, took the scarf,
put out the light, and went back down-stairs. He stopped for a moment
in the hall to wonder what this was that assailed him so strangely, this
passionate bitterness against the other man, this longing to shelter
Edith from whatever might make her unhappy.

[Sidenote: On the Veranda]

The living-room was dark. In her moonlit corner, Madame still slept.
From where he stood, he could see the dainty little lavender-clad figure
enwrapped in its white shawl. There was no sign of Edith in the room, so
he went out upon the veranda, guessing that he should find her there.

She had taken out two chairs--a favourite rocker of her own, and the
straight-backed, deep chair in which Alden usually sat when he was
reading. The chairs faced each other, with a little distance between
them. Edith sat in hers, rocking, with her hands crossed behind her
head, and her little white feet stretched out in front of her.

Without speaking, Alden went back for a footstool. Then he turned Edith,
chair and all, toward the moonlight, slipped the footstool under her
feet, laid the fluttering length of chiffon over her shoulders, and
brought his own chair farther forward.

"Why," she laughed, as he sat down, "do you presume to change my
arrangements?"

"Because I want to see your face."

[Sidenote: Effect of Moonlight]

"Didn't it occur to you that I might want to see yours?"

"Not especially."

"My son," she said, in her most matronly manner, "kindly remember that a
woman past her first youth always prefers to sit with her back toward
the light."

"I'm older than you are," he reminded her, "so don't be patronising."

"In years only," she returned. "In worldly wisdom and experience and all
the things that count, I'm almost as old as your mother is. Sometimes,"
she added, bitterly, "I feel as though I were a thousand."

A shadow crossed his face, but, as his figure loomed darkly against the
moon, Edith did not see it. The caressing glamour of the light revealed
the sad sweetness of her mouth, but presently her lips curved upward in
a forced smile.

"Why is it?" she asked, "that moonlight makes one think?"

"I didn't know it did," he replied. "I thought it was supposed to have
quite the opposite e