It was some three hours later that a vehicle conducted by one horse moved solitary under a rich and rising moon along the fair white road that leads to one of the most venerable if not the largest of our colleges. Dogged by its own black shadow, whose wheels, smaller but no less symmetrical, rolled silently beside it, this vehicle would inevitably have stirred romantic interest in the breast of any imaginative spectator of its progress. And this with reason, for one of its two occupants was a girl, who slept, white-faced beneath the moon, her head, on which was perched askew a housemaid's cap, drooped forward on her breast, her lips slightly parted. The other, a well-dressed young man, allowed the easy-going beast to pick its own way, the while he gazed at the sleeping face, compassionately, it would seem, for all at once, with a pitying exclamation, he slipped his arm behind her, and gently guided her head to his shoulder. With a sigh of relief she nestled against him and her face relaxed with the comfort of her new attitude, while still she slept. Thus they drove on for many minutes, nor did his eyes once leave that white, appealing face. So small she seemed, so helpless--could this slender creature have stood by him so gallantly, have matched her wits so triumphantly against the incredible crises of the past day? Day? Antony felt that the ordinary partitions of time had henceforth no meaning for him and that the philosopher who questioned the validity of time itself knew well whereof he had written. What a spirit the girl had! How beautiful she had looked in the wood! He sighed, and at that or some other slight sound she opened her eyes and gazed in terror at him. And as she gazed the terror slowly melted and disappeared, a lovely child-like confidence grew in its place, and she spoke softly. "It is you!" she said, and half awake, she smiled deliciously, straight into his bending eyes, "you are here?" A great wave seemed to break in Antony's breast. "Here?" he cried, deep voiced, "where could I be but here--with you? Who could be here--but me?" Fully awakened now, she started from him, a flood of red sweeping her pale face as she saw where she had been resting. "No--no!" she stammered, "you are--we are--I was only dreaming that----" With his eyes he entreated her, for their steed, spying the lights of home, had started forward and Antony's hands were busy. "Ah, Nette, dearest Nette," he begged her, and something in his voice shook her so that she trembled beside him, "if waking makes you hate me again, then dream! For when you dream, I am sure you love me." "I do not! I do not!" she cried, covering her face with her hands. The eager horse tugged at the bit: Antony forced her by his mere will to meet his eyes. "Not?" he said, low and clearly, "Not? Not after to-day, Nette?"