It was summer now, nearly midsummer. The garish day was fading, the summer moon had risen, its round shield so delicately pale as to look like silver; and Valentine Chandler was pacing the garden with Jane Preen in the moonlight. They had been singing a duet together at the piano, "I've wandered in dreams," and he had taken the accompaniment. He played well; and never living man had sweeter voice than he. They were wandering in dreams of their own, those two, had been for some time now. Silence between them as they paced the walk; a sort of discomforting, ominous silence. Valentine broke it. "Why don't you reproach me, Jane?" "Do I ever reproach you?" she answered. "No. But you ought to do so." "If you would only keep your promises, Valentine!" Young Mr. Valentine Chandler, having stayed his steps while they spoke, backed against the corner of the latticed arbour, which they were just then passing. The same arbour in which his aunt, Mrs. Mary Ann Cramp, had sat in her copper-coloured silk gown to convict her brother Jacob, Valentine's father, of his sins against Tom Chandler, one Sunday afternoon, not so very long gone by. Val did not answer. He seemed to be staring at the moon, to investigate what it was made of. In reality he saw no moon; neither moon, nor sky above, nor any earthly thing beneath; he only saw his own reckless folly in his mind's clouded mirror. "You know you do make promises, Valentine!" "And when I make them I fully mean to keep them; but a lot of idle fellows get hold of me, and--and--I _can't_," said he, in a savage tone. "But you might," said Jane. "If I made promises I should keep them to you--whatever the temptation." "I cannot think who it is that comes tattling to you about me, Jane! Is it Oliver?" "Oliver! Never. Oliver does not know, or suspect--anything." "Then it must be those confounded girls indoors!" "Nor they, either. It is not anyone in particular, Valentine; but I hear one and another talking about you." "I should like to know what they say. You must tell me, Jane." Jane caught her breath, as if she did not like to answer. But Valentine was waiting. "They say you are not steady, Val," she spoke in a whisper; "that you neglect your business; that unless you pull up, you will go to the bad." For a few moments Valentine remained quite still; you might have thought he had gone to sleep. Then he put out his hand, drew Jane gently to him, and bent down his head to her with a long-drawn sigh. "I _will_ pull up, Jane. It is not as bad as story-tellers make out. But I will pull up; I promise you; and I'll begin from this day." Jane Preen did not like to remind him that he had said the same thing many times before; rather would she trust to his renewed word. When a girl is in love, she has faith in modern miracles. Valentine held her to him very closely. "You believe me, don't you, my darling?" "Yes," she whispered.