“I want you, my darling, my darling! I’m tired with care and with fret; I’d nestle in silence beside you, And all but your presence forget. I call you, my darling, my darling! My voice echoes back on the heart; I stretch my arms to you in longing, And, lo, they fall empty apart. “I need you, my darling, my darling! With its yearnings my very heart aches; The load that divides us weighs harder, I shrink from the jar that it makes. Old sorrows rise up to beset me, Old doubts make my spirit their own; Oh, come through the darkness and save me, For I am alone!” It was a heart’s cry. The girl was thinking sadly of her loved and lost mother, but the listeners believed that she was singing to some lover over the dark-blue sea. “That is sweet, but too sad, Miss Vale,” said one of her admirers. “Please give us a happier strain.” And Percy Seabright chimed in vivaciously: “She seems to agree with the poet: “‘Each note recalls some withered leaf; I’m saddest when I sing!’” “Oh, see the moon!” cried Alexie suddenly, and they all started and turned to the sea, where the silver rim of the moon was just rising over the dark-purple line of water, building a silver bridge of resplendent beauty across the restless waves. With cries of eager admiration they all scrambled out of the wreck and hastened down to the beach, where the rolling surf boomed in and kissed their feet, then receded with a hollow murmur. Italy did not know how it happened, but she found Francis Murray by her side as she stood gazing delightedly at the full moon rising as if from a bed in the sea. In the silvery rays of light it seemed to her that his face was godlike in its manly beauty. She drew a long breath that was half-pain, half-pleasure, and exclaimed: “Ah, if one could cross to the other shore on that silver bridge!” “Are you home-sick?” he asked gently. And she sighed: “You know I have never really had a home. We were wanderers, mama and I. But yet I love the Old World, and, most of all, my birthplace, sunny Italy. I should like to be there to-night.” “Would you like to have a moonlight sail? The wind is freshening nicely, and here is a little boat,” he said. “Yes, I should like it,” she answered, and he helped her in, saying gaily: “We will sail a little way on that bridge of moonlight.” “Oh, how romantic!” cried several of the young people, as the white-sailed little dory skimmed lightly over the waves, right in the silver path of light, looking in the strange radiance like two glorified beings setting sail for Paradise. “Come back soon. I want to take Alexie sailing!” called out Ralph Allen. Alys Audenreid was close to her aunt’s side. She whispered vindictively: “I hope they will both get drowned.” “So do I,” was the instant reply, in a tone of sibilant hate and envy.