"Pauline, listen," he said, quickly. "You must come and say good night to me in the garden. Do you hear? You must! You must! I sha'n't sleep unless you do. You must!" "Guy," she murmured, "I couldn't." "You must! Promise ... you must. Come down and say good night to me on the lawn. I shall wait there all night. I shall wait...." The cuckoo burst out to cry seven o'clock. "You must come. You must come. Promise." "Perhaps," she whispered, faintly. Then she said she could not. Guy went to the door. "Remember, I have not kissed you good night," he proclaimed, solemnly. "And now I'm going. I shall wait from eleven o'clock, and stay all night until you have kissed me." "Oh, but Guy...." "To-night," he said. "You promise?" "Guy, if I dare, if I dare." There were footsteps in the passage. He fled across the room, kissed her momentarily and hurried out, saying good-by to the cousins, as he passed them, with a kind of exultant affection. Outside, the November night hung humid and oppressive; Guy, looking up, felt rain falling softly yet with gathering intensity, and he lingered a few moments in the drive, held by the whispering blackness. Behind him the lamplight of the Rectory windows seemed for the moment sad and unattainable and gave him the fancy he was drifting away from a friendly shore. Then suddenly he marched away along the drive, content; for the thought of "to-night," which latterly had often brought such a presentiment of loneliness, now sounded upon his imagination like the rapture of a nightingale.