ered; "you will see to that, won't you, Imp?"

"'Course I will, Uncle Dick!"

"Then go you, Sir Knight, and keep faithful ward behind yon apple tree,
and let no base varlet hither come; that is, if you see any one, be
sure to tell me." The Imp saluted and promptly disappeared behind the
apple tree in question, while I stood watching Lisbeth's dexterous
fingers and striving to remember a line from Keats descriptive of a
beautiful woman in the moonlight. Before I could call it to mind,
however, Lisbeth interrupted me.

"Don't you think you might pick up my shawl instead of staring at me as
if I was--"

"The most beautiful woman in the world!" I put in.

"Who is catching her death of cold," she laughed, yet for all her light
tone her eyes drooped before mine as I obediently wrapped the shawl
about her, in the doing of which, my arm being round her, very
naturally stayed there, and--wonder of wonders, was not repulsed. And
at this very moment, from the shadowy trees behind us, came the rich,
clear song of a nightingale.

Oh! most certainly the air was full of magic to-night!

"Dick," said Lisbeth very softly as the trilling notes died away, "I
thought one could only dream such a night as this is."

"And yet life might hold many such for you and me, if you would only
let it, Lisbeth," I reminded her. She did not answer.

"Not far from the village of Down, in Kent," I began.

"There stands a house," she put in, staring up at the moon with dreamy
eyes.

"A very old house, with twisted Tudor chimneys and pointed gables--you
see I have it all by heart, Dick--a house with wide stairways and long
pannelled chambers--"

"Very empty and desolate at present," I added. "And amongst other
things, there is a rose-garden--they call it My Lady's Garden, Lisbeth,
though no lady has trod its winding paths for years and years. But I
have dreamed, many and many a time, that we stood among the roses, she
and I, upon just such another night as this is. So I keep the old
house ready and the gardens freshly trimmed, ready for my lady's
coming; must I wait much longer, Lisbeth?" As I ended the nightingale
took up the story, pleading my cause for me, filling the air with a
melody now appealing, now commanding, until it gradually died away in
one long note of passionate entreaty.

Lisbeth sighed and turned towards me, but as she did so I felt a tug at
my coat, and, looking round, beheld the Imp.

"Uncle Dick," he said, his e