l and was gone, leaving the others
staring at each other. Peggy ran to the window and looked after her.
"She is all right, Margaret!" she cried; for Margaret was visibly
distressed and alarmed. "The woodbine is very thick and strong, and
there is the spout, too. There! She is down now, all safe. Good night!
oh, good night, dear Goat!"

About this time, Hugh Montfort, having said good night to his uncle and
the two Merryweathers, sauntered down the garden walk, for one more
turn, one more look at the night. It was a wonderful night. The moon was
full, and Fernley lay bathed in a flood of silver light, that seemed to
transform the old brown house into a fairy palace, stately and splendid.
There was no wind, and no sound broke the stillness; yes, it might well
be an enchanted palace, where every living thing lay fast bound by some
mighty spell. The leaves drooped motionless from the branches; beyond
the dark masses of trees, the broad lawns lay in green and silver.

"It's more like something Greek!" said Hugh. "Tempe, or some such place.
If a dryad, now, were to come out from that great tulip-tree--good
heavens!"

He stopped short, in the deep shadow of a clump of chestnut-trees.
Something moved, behind the very tree he was looking at. A figure came
lightly out into the open; a woman's figure, slight and supple, clad in
shadowy white. A dryad? No! the girl he had seen in the summer-house. He
knew the face, as it shone upturned in the moonlight; knew the firm
mouth and chin, the blue eyes, the look of careless power; seen once
only, it was as if he had known the face all his life.

What was she doing? A smile lighted her grave eyes suddenly. She
extended her arms, her face still raised to the moon. Her whole figure,
light as thistle-down, began to sway, to drift hither and thither over
the silver-green lawn. Dancing, was she? It was no human dance, surely;
the name was too common for this marvel of motion. A wave cresting and
curling toward its break; a cloud blown lightly along a summer sky by a
gentle wind; a field of grain, bending and rippling under the same wind.
Hugh thought of all these things, and rejected each in turn, as unworthy
of comparison to this, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He
watched her, as if in a dream of delight; each moment it seemed that he
must wake, and find the lovely vision gone. It was too rare, too perfect
to be real. It seemed as if all the moonlight in the world were drawn to