"Imp," cried Lisbeth, falling on her knees regardless of her silks and laces, "Imp, come and kiss me." The Imp drew out a decidedly grubby handkerchief, and, having rubbed his lips with it, obeyed. "Now, Uncle Dick!" he said, and offered me the grubby handkerchief. Lisbeth actually blushed. "Reginald!" she exclaimed, "whatever put such an idea into your head?" "Oh! everybody's always kissing somebody you know," he nodded; "an' it's Uncle Dick's turn now." Lisbeth rose from her knees and began to pat her rebellious hair into order. Now, as she raised her arms, her shawl very naturally slipped to the ground; and standing there, with her eyes laughing up at me beneath their dark lashes, with the moonlight in her hair, and gleaming upon the snow of her neck and shoulders, she had never seemed quite so bewilderingly, temptingly beautiful before. "Dick," she said, "I must go back at once--before they miss me." "Go back!" I repeated, "never--that is, not yet." "But suppose any one saw us!" she said, with a hairpin in her mouth. "They shan't," I answered; "you will see to that, won't you, Imp?" "'Course I will, Uncle Dick!" "Then go you, Sir Knight, and keep faithful ward behind yon apple tree, and let no base varlet hither come; that is, if you see any one, be sure to tell me." The Imp saluted and promptly disappeared behind the apple tree in question, while I stood watching Lisbeth's dexterous fingers and striving to remember a line from Keats descriptive of a beautiful woman in the moonlight. Before I could call it to mind, however, Lisbeth interrupted me. "Don't you think you might pick up my shawl instead of staring at me as if I was--" "The most beautiful woman in the world!" I put in. "Who is catching her death of cold," she laughed, yet for all her light tone her eyes drooped before mine as I obediently wrapped the shawl about her, in the doing of which, my arm being round her, very naturally stayed there, and--wonder of wonders, was not repulsed. And at this very moment, from the shadowy trees behind us, came the rich, clear song of a nightingale. Oh! most certainly the air was full of magic to-night! "Dick," said Lisbeth very softly as the trilling notes died away, "I thought one could only dream such a night as this is." "And yet life might hold many such for you and me, if you would only let it, Lisbeth," I reminded her. She did not answer. "Not far from the village of Down, in Kent," I began. "There stands a house," she put in, staring up at the moon with dreamy eyes. "A very old house, with twisted Tudor chimneys and pointed gables--you see I have it all by heart, Dick--a house with wide stairways and long pannelled chambers--"