The white-clad figure moved a hair's breadth nearer; the uplifted lovely face was very close. "Do I really mean that to you, Laurence? All that, really and truly?" she asked, wistfully. "Yes! And more. And more!" "I'll be the unhappiest girl in the world: I'll be the most miserable woman alive--if you ever change your mind, Laurence," said she. There was a quivering pause. Then: "You care?" asked the boy, almost breathlessly. "Mary Virginia, you care?" He laid his hands upon her shoulders and bent to search the alluring face. "Laurence!" said Mary Virginia, with a tremulous, half-tearful laugh, "Laurence, it's taken this one short winter to teach me, too. And--you were mistaken, utterly mistaken about those symptoms of mine. It wasn't tummy, Laurence. And it wasn't temper. I think--I am sure--that what I was trying so hard to squall to you in my cradle was--that I cared, Laurence." The young man's arms closed about her, and I saw the young mouths meet. I saw more than that: I saw other figures steal out into the moonlight and stand thus entwined, and one was the ghost of what once was I. That other, lost Armand De Rancé, looked at me wistfully with his clear eyes; and I was very, very sorry for him, as one may be poignantly sorry for the innocent, beautiful dead. My hand tightened on my beads, and the feel of my cassock upon me, as a uniform, steadied and sustained me. Those two had drawn back a little into the shadows as if the night had reached out its arms to them. Such a night belonged to such as these; they invest it, lend it meaning, give it intelligible speech. As for me, I was an old priest in an old cassock, with all his fond and foolish old heart melting in his breast. Youth alone is eternal and immortal. And as for love, it is of God. "_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen_." I had finished the decade. And then as one awakes from a trance I rose softly and as softly crept back to the Parish House, happy and at peace, because I had seen that which makes the morning stars rejoice when they sing together. "Armand," said my mother, sleepily, "is that you, dear? I must have been nodding in my chair. Mary Virginia's just walked to the gate with Laurence." "My goodness," said she, half an hour later. "What on earth can that child mean? Hadn't you better call her in, Armand?" "No," said I, decidedly. Laurence brought her back presently. There must have been something electrical in the atmosphere, for my mother of a sudden sat bolt upright in her chair. Women are like that. That is one of the reasons why men are so afraid of them. "Padre, and p'tite Madame," began Laurence, "you've been like a father and mother to me--and--and--" "And we thought you ought to know," said Mary Virginia. "My children!" cried my mother, ecstatically, "it is the wish of my heart! Always have I prayed our good God to let this happen--and you see?"