The night wind moaned fitfully among the trees; the branches of the tall lime trees swayed over her head; the fallen leaves twirled round her feet. She crossed the gardens; the moon cast strange shadows upon the broad paths. At length she saw the shrubbery gate, and, by it, erect and motionless, gazing on the bending trees in the park, was Hugh Fernely. He did not hear her light footsteps--the wind among the lime trees drowned them. She went up to him and touched his arm gently. "Hugh," she said, "I am here." Before she could prevent him, he was kneeling at her feet. He had clasped her hands in his own, and was covering them with hot kisses and burning tears. "My darling," he said, "my own Beatrice, I knew you would come!" He rose then, and, before she could stop him, he took the shawl from her head and raised the beautiful face so that the moonlight fell clearly upon it. "I have hungered and thirsted," he said, "for another look at that face. I shall see it always now--its light will ever leave me more. Look at me, Beatrice," he cried, "let me see those dark eyes again." But the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and dread. In the excitement of his joy he did not notice it. "Words are so weak," he said, "I can not tell you how I have longed for this hour. I have gone over it in fancy a thousand times; yet no dream was ever so bright and sweet as this reality. No man in the wide world ever loved any one as I love you, Beatrice." She could not resist the passionate torrent of words--they must have touched the heart of one less proud. She stood perfectly still, while the calm night seemed to thrill with the eloquent voice of the speaker. "Speak to me," he said, at length. "How coldly you listen! Beatrice, there is no love, no joy in your face. Tell me you are pleased to see me--tell me you have remembered me. Say anything let me hear your voice." "Hugh," she answered, gently, drawing her hands from his strong grasp, "this is all a mistake. You have not given me time to speak. I am pleased to see you well and safe. I am pleased that you have escaped the dangers of the deep; but I can not say more. I--I do not love you as you love me." His hands dropped nervously, and he turned his despairing face from her. "You must be reasonable," she continued, in her musical, pitiless voice. "Hugh, I was only a dreaming, innocent, ignorant child when I first met you. It was not love I thought of. You talked to me as no one else ever had--it was like reading a strange, wonderful story; my head was filled with romance, my heart was not filled with love." "But," he said, hoarsely, "you promised to be my wife." "I remember," she acknowledged. "I do not deny it; but, Hugh, I did not know what I was saying. I spoke without thought. I no more realized what the words meant than I can understand now what the wind is saying." A long, low moan came from his lips; the awful despair in his face startled her.