, for only one hat lay on the hall table,
and a glance showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She strolled
irresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at either open door,
sung a little to herself, but broke off in the middle of a line, and, as
if following a sudden impulse, went out into the mellow moonlight,
forgetful of uncovered head or dewy damage to the white hem of her
gown. Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook, and
looked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the seat doubly dark to
eyes inured to the outer light, and seeing a familiar seeming figure
sitting with its head upon its hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with a
daughterly caress--

"Why, what is my romantic father doing here?"

The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and with an
exclamation of surprise she had drawn back before Warwick replied--

"It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing here."

"I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you; what thought is so
charming that you forgot us all?"

Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have asked so
plain a question. But Warwick often asked much blunter ones, always told
the naked truth without prevarication or delay, and straightway
answered--

"The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my wife."

Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening in her hair
the delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered from the vine that formed
a leafy frame for the graceful picture which she made standing, with
uplifted arms, behind the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as she
moved on toward the house--

"It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is waiting for
me, and Mark wants to plan with you about our ride to-morrow. Shall we
go together?"

She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing her an expression
which she had never seen before. His face was flushed, his eye unquiet,
his manner eager yet restrained. She had seen him intellectually
excited many times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward, yet
warm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like her own. But with
a tact as native as her sympathy she showed no sign of this, except in
the attentive look she fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in its
splendor. He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but did not
answer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he asked abruptly--

"Should a rash promise be considered