“Did I?” said he dreamily. “O’ course you did!” she declared. “And folk must allers do what they promises.” Again he did not reply, because, though he heard, his heart was too full to heed. This was why his arm had been sure that day when he had saved her from death. But a sudden misgiving seemed to seize her at his silence, and she cried defiantly: “’Cos I ain’t niver goin’ away no more, Daddie. Niver no more!” Then the torrent of his joy was loosed. He pressed her convulsively to his heart and kissed her ... kissed her for all the weary days that were past ... for all the many hours of longing emptiness, when he might have had her to kiss and had not chosen to do so! Kissed her for all the kisses that he had cheated her of. “No, never no more!” echoed he fervently. “Daisy sha’n’t go away from ’er old Daddie never no more!” The moon was high up in the sky; the red had waned in her but the gold glowed, for she was the harvest moon. Over the dim marsh-land faint mists were beginning to rise, like tender ghosts of the day that was gone,—and the mystery of dusk hovered abroad. Tom Wycombe sat as he had sat three months ago, when he had given thanks to his God for restoring his child to him from the grave. And now he understood what was the meaning of the peace which passeth all understanding. A FARM TRAGEDY A FARM TRAGEDY The moon shone fitfully into the wood; shone fitfully because wild clouds were hurrying across the sky at intervals, so that the feeble radiance could not even pierce, as it might have done, the tender shadows of the forest that autumn gales had not yet stripped of its golden glory. At the foot of the dell two figures stood leaning against the gate that led from the wood on to the undulating ground beyond. The damp, russet leaves made a carpet under their feet, and fluttered softly down upon them as the gusts flew past; for their heads were bare, his cap had fallen off and bonnet she had none, and golden curls mingled with black ones as her face lay upon his shoulder and his rested against her cheek. They were lovers and they were young—very young. Any one could have told that—even in the fitful moonlight, even in the shadow: slender and strong and supple of pose—boy and girl still. “Oh, Charley, what ever shall I do when you’re gone!” moaned she. “I don’t see as ’ow I can get along anyways! It’d be bad enough for any girl, but it’s worse for me, ye must own, ’cos I can’t never say a word to nobody about ye. It’s as much as my life’s worth to let it be knowed as I wish ye a good-even. Ye don’t guess ’ow father ’ates you and yours, I’ll be bound ye don’t. I b’lieve as ’e’d sooner see me dead than wed to ye. Oh, Charley, _must_ ye go away?” There was a plaintive prophecy of tears in the soft murmuring voice, and the lad’s tones were nearly as rueful as he answered.