"It's a pretty picture, anyhow. There's the new moon exactly over their right shoulders, if they'd only turn their heads to look at it. I don't think much of signs; but, somehow, I always _do_ like to have that one come right!" "Well, it's there, whether they've found it out, or not," replied Aunt Faith. Glory sat on the flat doorstone. She had the invariable afternoon knitting work in her hand; but hand and work had fallen to her lap, and her eyes were away upon the glittering, faint crescent of the moon, that pierced the golden mist of sunset. Close by, the evening star had filled his chalice of silver splendor. "The star and the moon only see each other. I can see both. It is better." She had come to the feeling of Roger Armstrong's sermon. To receive consciously, as she had through her whole, life intuitively and unwittingly, all beauty of all being about her into the secret beauty of her own. She could be glad with the gladness of the whole world. The two came up, and Glory rose, and stood aside. "You have had thoughts, to-night, Glory," said the minister. "Where have they been?" "Away, there," answered Glory, pointing to the western sky. They turned, and followed her gesture; and from up there, at their right, beyond, came down the traditional promise of the beautiful young moon. Glory had shown it them. "And I've been thinking, besides," said Glory, "about that dream of yours, Miss Faith. I've thought of it all day. Please tell it to Mr. Armstrong?" And Glory disappeared down the long passage to the kitchen, and left them standing there, together. She went straight to the tin baker before the fire, and lifted the cover, to see if her biscuits were ready for tea. Then she seated herself upon a little bench that stood against the chimney-side, and leaned her head against the bricks, and looked down into the glowing coals. "It was put into my head to do it!" she said, breathlessly, to herself. "I hope it wasn't ridiculous!" So she sat, and gazed on, into the coals. _They_ were out there in the sunset, with the new moon and the bright star above them in the saffron depths. They stood alone, except for each other, in this still, radiant beauty of all things. Miss Henderson's window was around a projection of the rambling, irregular structure, which made the angle wherein the pleasant old doorstone lay. "May I have your dream, Miss Faith?" She need not be afraid to tell a simple dream. Any more, at this moment, than when she told it to Glory, that morning, on that very spot. Why did she feel, that if she should speak a syllable of it now, the truth that lay behind it would look out, resistless, through its veil? That she could not so keep down its spirit-meaning, that it should not flash, electric, from her soul to his?