“Do you feel cold, Eunice?” asked Crispin, noticing his companion shiver. “A little.” “Wait a moment, then. Your mother left a shawl near the window, I’ll fetch it to you at once.” “Take care she does not see you.” “Not much fear of that; she has an audience, and is happy.” He went off laughing quietly; and Eunice, leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, stared at the wonderful beauty of the sky. Away in the west shone the silver round of the moon, and below her were gigantic black clouds, the edges of which were tipped with light. They looked like gigantic rocks piled up from earth to heaven, and above them shone the serene planet in an expanse of blue, as if she scorned their efforts to veil her face. Far below Eunice heard the musical splash of the fountains, and the chill odors of flowers floated upward, as though drawn by the spell of her beauty. She looked wonderfully lovely with her delicate face turned upward to the moon, and so thought Crispin, as he came lightly along the terrace with the fleecy shawl over his arm. “I shall no longer call you the Fairy of Midnight,” he whispered, wrapping the shawl round her shoulders; “your name will be the ‘Moon Elf.’” “Ah, what a charming title for a fairy story!” said Eunice, who was anything but silent when away from her mother. “Why do you not write a fairy story?” “Because I am living one now.” “Flatterer!” “No; I am speaking the truth. I adore a lovely princess, who is guarded by an elderly dragon breathing the fire of scandal”— “You must not talk of my mother like that.” “Then I will not. She is the most charming lady I know.” “Oh!” “What! you are not pleased at that? My dearest Eunice, how cruel you are! But indeed I do not love your mother. She will not let me marry you.” “No; she wants me to marry Maurice,” said Eunice, with a sigh. “I am afraid that ambition will never be gratified. Maurice is our friend.” “Do you think he knows we love one another?” “I am sure he does. But he knows to-night for the first time; I saw it in his eyes when he looked at us.” “How can he have guessed?” “He did not guess. No; Roylands has never been in love, and only a lover can recognize the silent eloquence of love. But I think that keen-eyed old Rector”— “What! Mr. Carriston? Impossible! How could he tell we loved one another?” “Well, going by the theory I have propounded, he must have at one time of his life been in love himself, and therefore intuitively guessed our hidden romance.” “But he is a bachelor.” “Ah, then he has had a romance also! An extinct volcano perhaps.” “And Maurice?” “Is not a volcano at all—at least, not so far as I know. He has never been in love yet, but he will be some day.” “When?” “Pardon me, I cannot lift the veil of the future. But I admit Maurice with his melancholia puzzles me.” “Well, you puzzle every one yourself. They call you the riddle of London.” “I will explain my riddle self to you when we marry.” “I am afraid that will never be.”