"Well, there is a splendid chance of his doing it," Langdon said. "I was awfully afraid to mention the subject to him, you know, for fear that he would suspect my interest was wholly due to you, but it happens that he has never seen us together, and so he thought it was simply my sympathy for one of our neighbors. I had to do something, Virginia. I couldn’t stay idle when my beautiful little sweetheart was in such downright trouble." With a furtive glance towards the house and up and down the road, Langdon drew her towards him. Just one instant she resisted, and then, for the first time in her life, she allowed him to kiss her without open protest. She remained thus close to him, permitting him to stroke her soft, rounded cheeks gently. Never before were two persons impelled by diverse forces so closely united. "When do you—you think your father will write?" she asked, her voice low, her soul almost shrieking in joy. "That depends," said Chester. "You see, he may not get at the matter _the very day_ he arrives in Savannah, for he is a great old codger to let matters slide in the background while he is meeting old friends. But, little girl, I don’t intend to let it slip out of his mind. I’ll drop him a line and urge him to fix it up if possible. That, I think, will bring him around. Your mother is sound asleep," he added, seductively; "let’s walk a little way down the road. I sha’n’t keep you long. I feel awfully happy with you all to myself." She raised no objection as he unfastened the latch of the gate with deft, noiseless fingers and, smiling playfully, drew her after him and silently closed the opening. "Now, this is more like it," he said. "Lovers should have the starry skies above them and open fields about. Forget your mother a little while, Virginia. It will all come out right, and you and I will be the happiest people in the world. Great Heavens! how perfectly lovely you are in the moonlight! You look like a statue of Venus waking to life." They had reached the brook which rippled on brown stones across the road at the foot of the slight rise on which the cottage stood, when they saw some one approaching. It was Ann Boyd driving her cow home, her heavy skirts pinned up half-way to her stout knees. With one sharp, steady stare at them, Ann, without greeting of any kind, lowered her bare, dew-damp head and trudged on. "It’s that miserly old hag, Ann Boyd," Langdon said, lightly. "I don’t like her any more than she does me. I reckon that old woman has circulated more lies about me than all the rest of the country put together." At the first sight of Ann, Virginia had withdrawn her hand from Langdon’s arm and passionate clasp of fingers, but the action had not escaped Ann’s lynx eyes.