se days apart, which had seemed so long to both.

They walked silently, side by side, to the wide stone parapet
overlooking the old-fashioned garden. The silvery moonlight flooded the
whole scene with radiance. They could see the stiff box-borders, the
winding paths, the queerly shaped flower-beds, and, beyond, the lake,
like a silver mirror, reflecting the calm loveliness of the full moon.

Garth spread the rug on the coping, and Jane sat down. He stood beside
her, one foot on the coping, his arms folded across his chest, his head
erect. Jane had seated herself sideways, turning towards him, her back
to an old stone lion mounting guard upon the parapet; but she turned
her head still further, to look down upon the lake, and she thought
Garth was looking in the same direction.

But Garth was looking at Jane.

She wore the gown of soft trailing black material she had worn at the
Overdene concert, only she had not on the pearls or, indeed, any
ornament save a cluster of crimson rambler roses. They nestled in the
soft, creamy old lace which covered the bosom of her gown. There was a
quiet strength and nobility about her attitude which thrilled the soul
of the man who stood watching her. All the adoring love, the passion of
worship, which filled his heart, rose to his eyes and shone there. No
need to conceal it now. His hour had come at last, and he had nothing
to hide from the woman he loved.

Presently she turned, wondering why he did not begin his confidences
about Pauline Lister. Looking up inquiringly, she met his eyes.

"Dal!" cried Jane, and half rose from her seat. "Oh, Dal,--don't!"

He gently pressed her back. "Hush, dear," he said. "I must tell you
everything, and you have promised to listen, and to advise and help.
Ah, Jane, Jane! I shall need your help. I want it so greatly, and not
only your help, Jane--but YOU--you, yourself. Ah, how I want you! These
three days have been one continual ache of loneliness, because you were
not there; and life began to live and move again, when you returned.
And yet it has been so hard, waiting all these hours to speak. I have
so much to tell you, Jane, of all you are to me--all you have become to
me, since the night of the concert. Ah, how can I express it? I have
never had any big things in my life; all has been more or less
trivial--on the surface. This need of you--this wanting you--is so
huge. It dwarfs all that went before; it would overwhelm all that is to
come,--w