ew late,
Bound by a weary spell.
Then a face came in at the garden-gate,
And a wondrous thing befell.

Up rose the joy as well as the love,
In the song, in the scent, in the show!
The moon grew glad in the sky above,
The blossom grew rosy below.

The blossom and moon, the scent and the tune,
In ecstasy rise and fall.
But they had no thanks for the granted boon,
For the lady forgot them all.

There was no light in the room except that of the shining air. Alec sat
listening, as if Kate were making and meaning the song. But
notwithstanding the enchantment of the night, all rosy in the red glow
of Alec's heart; notwithstanding that scent of gilly-flowers and
sweet-peas stealing like love through every open door and window;
notwithstanding the radiance of her own beauty, Kate was only singing a
song. It is sad to have all the love and all the mystery to
oneself--the other being the centre of the glory, and yet far beyond
its outmost ring, sitting on a music-stool at a common piano
old-fashioned and jingling, not in fairyland at all in fact, or even
believing in its presence.

But that night the moon was in a very genial humour, and gave her light
plentiful and golden. She would even dazzle a little, if one looked at
her too hard. Sho could not dazzle Tibbie though, who was seated with
Annie on the pale green grass, with the moon about them in the air and
beneath them in the water.

"Ye say it's a fine munelicht nicht, Annie."

"Ay, 'deed is't. As bonnie a nicht as ever I saw."

"Weel, it jist passes my comprehension--hoo ye can see, whan the air's
like this. I' the winter ye canna see, for it's aye cauld whan the
sun's awa; and though it's no cauld the nicht, I fin' that there's no
licht i' the air--there's a differ; it's deid-like. But the soun' o'
the water's a' the same, and the smell o' some o' the flowers is
bonnier i' the nicht nor i' the day. That's a' verra weel. But hoo ye
can see whan the sun's awa, I say again, jist passes my comprehension."

"It's the mune, ye ken, Tibbie."

"Weel, what's the mune? I dinna fin' 't. It mak's no impress upo'
me.--Ye _canna_ see sae weel's ye say, lass!" exclaimed Tibbie, at
length, in a triumph of incredulity and self assertion.

"Weel, gin ye winna believe me o' yer ain free will, Tibbie, I maun
jist gar ye," said Annie. And she rose, and running into the cottage,
fetched from it a small pocket Bible.

"Noo, ye jist hearken, Tibbie," s