‘Let me stay a few minutes longer,’ pleaded Daphne, taking out her purse. ‘I am going away from England to-morrow, and I have come to say good-bye to the dear old church.’ ‘Are you going to be away long, miss?’ ‘Nearly three months.’ ‘That’s a very short time,’ said the old man, pocketing Daphne’s half-crown. ‘I thought perhaps you were going away for many years—going to settle somewhere across the sea. It hardly seems like saying good-bye to the church if you are to be back among us this side Michaelmas.’ ‘No,’ said Daphne dreamily, looking along the shadowy nave, where broken rays of moonlight from the painted windows shone upon the dark oak benches like dropped jewels. ‘It is not long; but one never knows. To-night I feel as if it were going to be for ever. I am so fond of this old church.’ ‘No wonder, miss. It’s a beautiful church. You should hear the Americans admire it. I suppose they’ve nothing half as good in their country.’ The moon was up when Daphne left the church, and walked round by head-stones and memorial-crosses to the shaded path beside the river, where here and there a seat on the low wall invited the weary to repose in the cool shade of ancient elms. The broad full river looked calm and bright under the moonlit sky; the murmur of the weir sounded like a lullaby. Daphne walked slowly to the end of the path, and stood for a long time looking down at the river. She felt curiously loth to leave the spot. Yet it was time she were on her homeward way. They would miss her, perhaps, and be perplexed, and even anxious about her. But in the next moment she dismissed the idea of any such anxiety on her behalf. ‘Lina will not think about me while Mr. Goring is with her; and my father is not likely to trouble himself. There is only poor Edgar, and he will guess which way I have come, and follow me if he takes it into his head to be uneasy.’ Reassured by this idea, Daphne resolved to gratify her fancy for farewells to the uttermost, and to say good-bye to the house where the poet was born. Stratford streets were very empty and quiet at this period of the summer evening, and she met only a few people between the churchyard and the sacred dwelling. To a stranger, entrance into the sanctuary at such an hour would have been out of the question; but Daphne was on friendly terms with the lady custodians of the temple, and knew she could coax them to unlock the door for her pleasure. Never lamp or candle was admitted within the precincts, but on such a night as this there would be no need for artificial light; and Daphne only wanted to creep into the quaint old rooms, to look round her quietly for a minute or two, and feel the spirit of the place breathing poetry into her soul. ‘I have such a strange fancy that I may never see these things again,’ she said to herself as she stood in the moonlit garden, where only such flowers grew as were known in Shakespeare’s time.