e moonlit meadow
toward that dim, white form moving through the dusk.

"I wondered," she said, "whether you were coming," as he stepped through
the long, fragrant grass to her side.

"You might have wondered if I had not come," he answered.

"Yes, that is true. This moonlight is too wonderful to miss," she added
without a trace of self-consciousness.

"It was for you I came."

"Couldn't you find my sisters?" she asked innocently.

He did not reply. Presently she stumbled over a hummock, recovered her
poise without comment, and slipped her hand into his with unconscious
confidence.

"Do you know what I have been studying to-day?" she asked.

"What?"

"That curious phycomycetous fungus that produces resting-spores by the
conjugation of two similar club-shaped hyphae, and in which conidia also
occur. It's fascinating."

After a silence he said:

"What would you think of me if I told you that I do not comprehend a
single word of what you have just told me?"

"Don't you?" she asked, astonished.

"No," he replied, dropping her hand. She wondered, vaguely distressed;
and he went on presently: "As a plain matter of fact, I don't know much.
It's an astonishing discovery for me, but it's a fact that I am not your
mental, physical, or spiritual equal. In sheer, brute strength perhaps I
am, and I am none too certain of that, either. But, and I say it to my
shame, I can not follow you; I am inferior in education, in culture, in
fine instinct, in mental development. You chatter in a dozen languages
to your sisters: my French appals a Paris cabman; you play any
instrument I ever heard of: the guitar is my limit, the fandango my
repertoire. As for alert intelligence, artistic comprehension, ability
to appreciate, I can not make the running with you; I am
outclassed--hopelessly. Now, if this is all true--and I have spoken the
wretched truth--_what_ can a man like me have to say for himself?"

Her head was bent, her fair face was in shadow. She strayed on a little
way, then, finding herself alone, turned and looked back at him where he
stood. For a moment they remained motionless, looking at one another,
then, as on some sweet impulse, she came back hastily and looked into
his eyes.

"I do not feel as you do," she said; "you are very--good--company. I am
not all you say; I know very little. Listen. It--it distresses me to
have you think I hold you--lightly. Truly we are _not_ apart."

"There is but one thing that can