From tea till dinner-time they wandered about the place; like two children, the one introducing the other to her home. This was the hedge where the long-tailed tit built, and this the copse where wild lilies-of-the-valley flowered in May. There was a reminiscence dear to her, and infinitely dear to him, about every yard of the place. The old boat-house with a leaky punt had given her many a Columbus voyage to the island on the lake, and the clusters of water-lilies to surprised eyes had been a Sargasso Sea. The punt was gone, but a newer boat was there, and they rowed about for nearly an hour, and watched the quick fishes in the water, and gathered the tall rushes and the golden-hearted lilies, and together were rung to dressing time, as Jeannie in the old days had been rung to bed. And as before they delayed to obey. Dinner was over, and they sat on the south of the terrace-fronted house; a full moon moved like a queen bee among the swarming stars, and the world was refashioned out of soft darkness and ivory and pearl. Pearl-coloured was Jeannie’s dress, and she the pearl of pearls. “How strange one’s life goes in acts,” she said. “The act at Wroxton is over now, but what a pleasant one it was. Oh, Jack, I hope this act will be a long one. Do you remember the plank bridge by the mill, and Toby shaking himself?” “Do I remember?” echoed Jack. “Do I remember?” “Only think, it is not a year ago,” she said. “And until then we had lived without each other. What a pity we did not advertise for each other before. It has been such a waste of time. Ah, there is the nightingale; there is always one in the elms at the end of the terrace. I remember how it sang all that night on which my father died.” “It does not hurt you to think of that?” said Jack, gently. “No, why should it? Life, love, death, the three great gifts of God. ‘What further can be sought for or declared?’” she quoted. For a long time they sat in silence. The moon, still not yet in zenith, shone with a very clear light across the lake, and made a pathway of silver to the dim farther shore. To the right the nightingale trilled and bubbled, a few lights gleamed from the great house behind. A spell seemed cast over the world, and over the two sitting there a spell was cast. Suddenly Jeannie turned and laid her arm round his neck. “You are happy?” she asked. “You have made no mistake?” But in her heart there was no question, but utter conviction. “God knows I am happy!” he said. “And you, Jack, you?” she asked. “Do you know it?” “You know that I know it,” he replied. “Is that not enough?” And they rose and walked softly through the softness of the night back to the house. THE END * * * * * BOOKS BY E. F. BENSON. Scarlet and Hyssop. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.