Shivering still, with the sense of an arm still about her, of wild breath beating on her cheek, she looked wonderfully out at the stars which had seen her possessing. They burned steadily in their violet hold--a million kindly eyes welcoming her to the Open Country. The great town lay so still below that but for the glare behind the houses, which told her that it lived, she might have thought herself enfolded in the hills. So sure she was that she had been wedded, she glanced swiftly up and down the street, lest one chance passenger should have seen her naked soul. So a young girl, kissed by her lover, will search the emptiness in fear. Not a soul could be seen; Charles Street under its lamplight showed like a broad white ribbon curving towards the Square, towards the Park. To her heart she whispered, “Dearest, you may love me--we are alone under the stars”--and then shut her eyes fast, and with parted lips breathed quick and short. Out of the night, out of an empty street, a voice came up, “He loves you--none so well. He lies out on the down in a white robe. He watches for you and waits. I have seen him, talked with him of you. Can you refuse such love as his? Goddess though you are, you will get no higher love.” The voice was very real. She knew it well. From the close arms that held her, she answered it. “Oh, Struan, I know! I knew before you told me. It's wonderful. Love is a wonderful thing.” “It's all we have in the world. I am here to tell you that he waits for you. Good-night.” “Good-night, Struan,” she said. “I'm quite happy now.” She remembered afterwards, with a shock of dismay at her selfishness, that she had never asked Struan of his welfare. * * * * * She came to herself with a shudder and envisaged her circumstance. She had had “a rare vision,” like Bottom the weaver--and that was all. Jack Senhouse had never loved her so. To him she had been Artemis, the cold goddess, or Queen Mab, whom no man might take. He had said so often--and had looked it whenever she was near him. Meantime, she was to be married--and _Tristan_ was unprofitable provender. It had given her an indigestion of the mind. She would go to bed. That she deliberately did--with one ceremony, characteristic of her frugality. She opened a locked drawer, and looked at its contents. There lay three goodly piles of letters, tied with blue ribbon. Each packet was labelled “Jack to Me,” and dated with beginning and ending. She contented herself with looking at them, smiling wisely and thoughtfully as she did so. Then, like a child, not trusting to her eyes alone, she looked at them with her fingers; touched them delicately in turn, with a caress. Immediately afterwards she locked them up; and turned to her disrobing. She slept quietly, and went about her affairs of the morrow with a calmness that surprised her.