At the moment the moon was looking down the straight arm so squarely one might have said she had cleft the opening herself with her silver blade of light. Down at the end of the narrow arm they had the sense of a wider body of water running at right angles, a pearly, fairy-like strait. On the point which separated the two bodies of water stood a little white house gleaming wanly in the moonlight. In a window of the house, a curious note in that dreamy world of opal and pearl, shone an insistent yellow light. "Surely real people can't live there," murmured Don. "The worst kind, unfortunately," said Pen. "That's where the oystermen go to get drunk." They retraced their steps up the bank. When they trod firm earth again, Pen repossessed herself of her hand. "Where now?" asked Don. "There's no place to go but back." "Not yet," he pleaded. "Let's stay here awhile. There's plenty of time. There are no mosquitoes to-night." An old skiff had been dragged up on top of the bank and turned over. "Sit here," he urged. Blaming herself for her weakness, she sat upon it with her hands in her lap. The moonlight was strong upon her. There was a wall of undergrowth at her back. Her face and hands stood out against it sharply. Don dropped to the ground at her feet. "It's damp there," she objected. "Can't see you when I sit beside you," he said. "I can from here. With only your face and hands showing out of your black dress you look like a spirit." "A lost spirit!" she said with her little laugh. "Oh Pen!" he said in distress. "Why should you be unhappy?" "I hate the moon!" she said. "It makes a fool of me!" His touch of sympathy unnerved her. That and the glamorous destructive light that would not let her breast be. The last of her defenses collapsed. In spite of herself the tears welled up in her eyes and brimmed over. She lowered her head to hide them, but he caught the sparkle of the drops as they fell. It electrified him. He scrambled to his knees. "Pen! Pen!" he whispered brokenly. She covered her face with her hands. He dragged them down, and crushed them under his own hands on her knees. "Pen!" he gasped. "It breaks my heart to see you! What is the matter?" She strained away from him. "Nothing!" she said crossly. "I'm not the sort that cries!" "But you're crying now. I see your tears!" "It's nothing. I'm just nervous. Don't notice me." "Oh Pen, I love you so!" he groaned. "It kills me to see your tears!" She looked at him with a kind of horror. He dropped his head in her lap. "There it's out!" he groaned. "All evening I've been fighting against it. Every night I've been with you. I swore I wouldn't tell you. But here I am ... just like a baby. God knows I'll regret it to-morrow!" "But why?" she gasped. "Because it drives me wild to think of bringing unhappiness into your life. I'd sooner jump off the wharf yonder. It's unmanly to tell you now!"