e 'Erroneous Lunar Calculations of Recent
Novelists,' but decided that it didn't really make any difference. And
of course it doesn't."

As they discussed novels new and old, he drew in his paddle and crept
nearer her. It seemed to him that all the influences of earth and heaven
had combined to create this hour for him. To be talking to her of books
that interpreted life and of life itself was in itself something sweet;
he wished such comradeship as this, made possible by their common
interests in the deep, surging currents of the century in which they
lived, to go on forever.

Their discussion of Tolstoy was interrupted by the swift flight of a
motor boat that passed near, raising a small sea, and he seized the
paddle to steady the canoe. Then silence fell upon them.

"Sylvia" he said softly, and again, "Sylvia!" It seemed to him that the
silence and the beauty of the night were his ally, communicating to her
infinite longings hidden in his heart which he had no words to express.
"I love you, Sylvia; I love you. I came up to-night to tell you that."

"Oh, Dan, you mustn't say it--you must never say it!"

The canoe seemed to hang between water and stars, a motionless argosy in
a sea of dreams.

"I wanted to tell you before you came away," he went on, not heeding; "I
have wanted to tell you for a long time. I want you to marry me. I want
you to help me find the good things; I want you to help me to stand for
them. You came just when I needed you; you have already changed me, made
a different man of me. It was through you that I escaped from my old
self that was weak and yielding, and I shall do better; yes, I shall
prove to you that I am not so weak but that I can strive and achieve.
Every word you ever spoke to me is written on my heart. I need you,
Sylvia!"

"You're wrong, you're terribly wrong about all that; and it isn't fair
to let you say such things. Please, Dan! I hoped this would never
come--that we should go on as we have been, good friends, talking as we
were a while ago of the fine things, the great things. And it will have
to be that way--there can be nothing else."

"But I will do my best, Sylvia! I'm not the man you knew first; you
helped me to see the light. Without you I shall fall into the dark
again. I had to tell you, Sylvia. It was inevitable that I should tell
you; I wonder I kept it to myself so long. Without you I should go
adrift--no bearings, no light anywhere."

"You found yourself,