"Good-night, my beloved," he whispered. "It is not for long. I shall see you to-morrow. Good-night! I shall wait here until I see you enter the lane; you will be safe then." He held her in his arms for a moment, then he let her go, and stood on the bank watching her. She sped across the meadows and entered the lane breathless. Pausing for a moment to recover her composure, she went on to the gate and opened it. As she did so a slight, youthful figure slipped out of the shadow and confronted her. She uttered a slight cry and looked up. At that moment the moonlight fell upon the face in front of her. It was the same face in the miniature. The same face, though changed from boyhood to youth. It was "Frank!" CHAPTER XIX. It was the face she had seen in the miniature, changed from childhood to youth. The same blue eyes, frank, confiding, and womanish--the same golden hair clustering in short curls, instead of falling on the shoulders as in the picture--the same smiling mouth, with its little touch of weakness about the under lip. A taking, a pretty rather than a handsome face; it ought to have belonged rather to a girl than a boy. Stella stared, and doubted the evidence of her senses. Her dream flashed across her mind and made her heart beat with a sudden emotion, whether of fear or pleasure she could not tell. Who was this boy, and what was he doing there leaning on the gate as if the place belonged to him, and he had a right to be there? She took a step nearer, and he opened the gate for her. Stella entered, and he raised his hat, allowing the moonbeams to fall on his yellow hair, and smiled at her, very much as a child might smile, with grave, open-eyed admiration and greeting. "Are you--you _are_ Stella!" he said, in a voice that made her start,--it was so like her uncle's, but softer and brighter. "My name is Stella!" she said, filled with wonder. He held out his hand frankly, but with a little timid shyness. "Then we are cousins," he said. "Cousins?" exclaimed Stella, but she gave him her hand. "Yes, cousins," he said. "You are Stella, Uncle Harold's daughter, are you not? Well, I am Frank." She had felt it. "Frank?" she repeated, amazedly. He nodded. "Yes, I am your Cousin Frank. I hope"--and a cloud settled on his face--"I hope you are not sorry?" "Sorry!" she uttered, feeling stupid and confused. "No, I am not sorry! I am very glad--of course I am very glad!" and she held out her hand this time. "But I didn't know!" "No," he said, with a little sigh. "No, I suppose you did not." A step was heard behind them, and Mr. Etheridge appeared. Stella ran to him with a glad cry and put her arms round his neck. "Uncle!" He kissed her, and parting the hair from her forehead, looked into her eyes tenderly.