"Except that she loves you!" It was all summed up in this. He did not attempt to return the caress; he took it reverentially, half overwhelmed with it. It was as if a sudden stillness had fallen on nature, as if the night stood still in awe of her great happiness. They were silent for a minute, both wrapped in thoughts of the other, then Stella said suddenly, and with a little not-to-be-suppressed sigh: "I must go! See, the moon is almost above the trees." "It rises early to-night, very," he said, eagerly. "But I must go," she said. "Wait a moment," he pleaded. "Let us go on shore and walk to the weir--only to the weir; then we will come back and I will row you over. It will not take five minutes! Come, I want to show it to you with the moon on it. It is a favorite spot of mine; I have often stood and watched it as the water danced over it in the moonlight. I want to do so this evening, with you by my side. I am selfish, am I not?" He helped her out of the boat, almost taking her in his arms, and touching her sleeve with his lips; in his chivalrous mood he would not so far take advantage of her in her helplessness as to kiss her face, and they walked hand in hand, as they used to do in the good old days when men and women were not ashamed of love. Why is it that they should be now? Why is it that when a pair of lovers indulge on the stage in the most chaste of embraces, a snigger and a grin run through the audience? In this age of burlesque and satire, of sarcasm and cynicism, is there to be no love making? If so, what are poets and novelists to write about--the electric light and the science of astronomy? They walked hand in hand, Leycester Wyndward Viscount Trevor, heir to Wyndward and an earldom, and Stella, the painter's niece, and threaded the wood, keeping well under the shadows of the high trees, until they reached the bank where the weir touched. Lord Leycester took her to the brink and held her lightly. "See," he said, pointing to the silver stream of water; "isn't that beautiful; but it is not for its beauty only that I have brought you to the river. Stella, I want you to plight your troth to me here." "Here?" she said, looking up at his eager face. "Yes; this spot is reported haunted--haunted by good fairies instead of evil spirits. We will ask them to smile on our betrothal, Stella." She smiled, and watched his eyes with half-serious amusement; there was a strange light of earnestness in them. Stooping down he took up a handful of the foaming water and threw a few drops on her head and a few on his own. "That is the old Danish rite, Stella," he said. "Now repeat after me-- "'Come joy or woe, come pain or pleasure, Come poverty or richest treasure, I cling to thee, love, heart unto heart, Till death us sever, we will not part.'" Stella repeated the words after him with a faint smile on her lips, which died away under the glow of his earnest eyes.