his hand so long in hers that he came
near losing his presence of mind and telling her then and there that he
loved her. As his eyes rested on her, they became suddenly suffused with
tears, and a vast bewildering happiness vibrated through his frame.
At last he tore himself away and wandered aimlessly through the long,
lonely streets. Why could he not tell Edith that he loved her? Was there
any disgrace in loving? This heavenly passion which so suddenly had
transfused his being, and year by year deadened the substance of his old
self, creating in its stead something new and wild and strange which he
never could know, but still held infinitely dear--had it been sent to
him merely as a scourge to test his capacity for suffering?

Once, while he was a child, his mother had told him that somewhere in
this wide world there lived a maiden whom God had created for him, and
for him alone, and when he should see her, he should love her, and his
life should thenceforth be all for her. It had hardly occurred to him,
then, to question whether she would love him in return, it had appeared
so very natural that she should. Now he had found this maiden, and she
had been very kind to him; but her kindness had been little better than
cruelty, because he had demanded something more than kindness. And still
he had never told her of his love. He must tell her even this very night
while the moon rode high in the heavens and all the small differences
between human beings seemed lost in the vast starlit stillness. He knew
well that by the relentless glare of the daylight his own insignificance
would be cruelly conspicuous in the presence of her splendor; his
scruples would revive, and his courage fade.

The night was clear and still. A clock struck eleven in some church
tower near by. The Van Kirk mansion rose tall and stately in the
moonlight, flinging a dense mass of shadow across the street. Up in the
third story he saw two windows lighted; the curtains were drawn, but the
blinds were not closed. All the rest of the house was dark. He raised
his voice and sang a Swedish serenade which seemed in perfect concord
with his own mood. His clear tenor rose through the silence of the
night, and a feeble echo flung it back from the mansion opposite:

[3] "Star, sweet star, that brightly beamest,
Glittering on the skies nocturnal,
Hide thine eye no more from me,
Hide thine eye no more from me!"

The curtain was