t made a mistake. Look very
carefully," said Henry.

"I won't," said Angel; "I think you're cruel."

"Angel, if you'll only look, and say you are quite sure, I'll believe
every word the old woman said."

At last Angel was persuaded to look, and to look again, and the old
woman's credit rose at each look.

"Yes, Henry, whatever happens, I know it is true. My life is in your
hands."

Those are solemn words for one human being to hear uttered by another;
and a shiver of new responsibility involuntarily ran through
Henry's veins.

"May the hands be always strong and clean enough to hold so precious a
gift," he answered, gravely.

"Are you sad, dear?" asked Angel, presently, with a sort of divination.

"Not sad, dear, but serious," he answered.

"Have I turned to a responsibility so soon?"

"You strange, wise child, I believe you are a witch."

"Oh, I was right then."

"Right in one way, but perhaps wrong in another. Don't you know that
some responsibilities are the most dearly coveted of mortal honours? But
then we shouldn't be worthy of them, if they didn't make us feel a
little serious. Can't you imagine that to hear another say that her life
is in one's hands makes one feel just a little solemn?"

"But isn't your life in mine, Henry?" asked Angel, simply.

"Of course it is, dear," answered Henry.

And then the moon began to rise through the trees, pouring enchantment
over the sleeping woods, and the meadows half-submerged in lakes
of mist.

Angel drew close to Henry, and watched it with big eyes.

"What a wonderful world it is! How beautiful and how sad!" she said,
half to herself.

"Yes; there is nothing in the world so sad as beauty," answered Henry.

"If only to-night could last forever! If only we could die now, sitting
just like this, with the moon rising yonder."

"But we shall have many nights like this together," said Henry.

"No; we shall never have this night again. We may have other wonderful
nights, but they will be different. This will never come again."

Henry instinctively realised that here was a mystical side to Angel's
nature which, however it might charm him, was not to be indiscriminately
encouraged, and he tried to rally her out of her sadness, but her
feeling was too much his own for him to persist; and as the moonlight
moved in its ascension from one beautiful change to another, now woven
by branches and leaves into weird tapestries of light and darkness, now
hanging li