nly been conscious that
the moon shone upon Horace and herself. She was shamed and angry as
she had never been shamed and angry before.

Horace leaned forward and gazed eagerly at her. After all, was he
mistaken? He was shrewd enough, although he did not understand the
moods of women very well, and it did seem to him that there was
something distinctly encouraging in her tone. Just then the night
wind came in strongly at the window beside which they were sitting.
An ardent fragrance of dewy earth and plants smote them in the face.

"Do you feel the draught?" asked Horace.

"I like it."

"I am afraid you will catch cold."

"I don't catch cold at all easily."

"The wind is very damp," argued Horace, with increasing confidence.
He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her little white hands. "I
won't believe it unless I can feel for myself that your hands are not
cold," said he. He felt the little soft fingers curl around his hand
with the involuntary, pristine force of a baby's. His heart beat
tumultuously.

"Oh--" he began. Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her hand
away and again gazed at the moon.

"It is a beautiful night," she remarked, and the harmless deceit of
woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner.

Horace was more obtuse. He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl.
He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitful
voice, "Yes, a perfectly beautiful night."

Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. "It is a nice
night enough," said she, "but you'll both catch your deaths of cold
at this open window. The wind is blowing right in on you."

She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, but
the young man sprang to his feet. "Let me close it, Mrs. Whitman,"
said he, and did so.

"It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an open
window and let the wind blow in on you," said Sylvia, severely. She
drew up a rocking-chair and sat down. She formed the stern apex of a
triangle of which Horace and Rose were the base. She leaned back and
rocked.

"It is a pleasant night," said she, as if answering Rose's remark,
"but to me there's always something sort of sad about moonlight
nights. They make you think of times and people that's gone. I dare
say it is different with you young folks. I guess I used to feel
different about moonlight nights years ago. I remember when Mr.
Whitman and I were first married, we used