“It is lovely, darling!” he rejoined; then, after a moment’s pause, added, “I hope you will be able to sleep without the sea to rock you!” “No fear of that!” she answered. “The stillness will be delightful. I was thoroughly reconciled to the motion of the yacht,” she went on, “but there is a satisfaction in feeling the solid earth under you, and knowing it will keep steady all night.” “I am glad you like the change. I never sleep the first night on shore.--I cannot tell what it is, but somehow I keep wishing Fyvie could have taken us all the way.” “Never mind, love. I will keep awake with you.” “It’s not that! How could I mind lying awake with you beside me! Oh Grace, you don’t know, you cannot know, what you are to me! I don’t feel in the least that you’re my other half, as people say. You’re not like a part of myself at all; to think so would be sacrilege! You are quite another, else how could you be mine! You make me forget myself altogether. When I look at you, I stand before an enchanted mirror that cannot show what is in front of it.” “No, Harry; I’m a true mirror, for I hold that inside me which remains outside me.” “I fear you’ve got beyond me!” said her husband, laughing. “You always do!” “Yes, at nonsense, Harry.” “Then your speech was nonsense, was it?” “No; it was full of sense. But think of something you would like me to say; I must fetch the boy to see the fire-flies; when I come back I will say it.” She left the room. Her husband stood where he was, gazing out, with a tender look in his face that deepened to sadness--whether from the haunting thought of his wife’s delicate health and his having to leave her, or from some strange foreboding, I cannot tell. When presently she returned with their one child in her arms, he made haste to take him from her. “My darling,” he said, “he is much too heavy for you! How stupid of me not to think of it! If you don’t promise me never to do that at home, I will take him to sea with me!” The child, a fair, bright boy, the sleep in whose eyes had turned to wonder, for they seemed to see everything, and be quite satisfied with nothing, went readily to his father, but looked back at his mother. The only sign he gave that he was delighted with the fire-flies was, that he looked now to the one, now to the other of his parents, speechless, with shining eyes. He knew they were feeling just like himself. Silent communion was enough. The father turned to carry him back to bed. The mother turned to look after them. As she did so, her eyes fell upon two or three delicate, small-leaved plants--I do not know what they were--that stood in pots on the balcony in front of the open window: they were shivering. The night was perfectly still, but their leaves trembled as with an ague-fit. “Look, Harry! What is that?” she cried, pointing to them. He turned and looked, said it must be some loaded wagon passing, and went off with the child.