She stood full under the brilliant lights in a gown of white chiffon, low in the neck, which drooped and swayed about her in flowing lines of grace. Her hair gleamed; her arms showed slim, white, but strong. And “Oh, my golden girl!” his heart cried to her, leaping. Her lips parted, and quite easily, in full, clear tones that struck the very center of the notes, she began to sing. “Good girl, _good girl!”_ he thought. For what she sang was neither sophisticated nor obvious--was indeed the only thing that could at once have satisfied him and pleased her audience. “Under the greenwood tree--” the notes came gay and sweet. Then, “Fear no more the heat o' the sun--” and the tones darkened. Again, “Oh, mistress mine--” they pulsed with happy love. Three times Mary sang--the immortal ballads of Shakespeare--simply, but with sure art and feeling. As the last notes ceased, “Love's a stuff will not endure,” and the applause broke out, absolute peace flooded Stefan's heart. In a dream he waited for her at the saloon door, held her coat, and mounted beside her to the boat deck. Not until they stood side by side at the rail, and she turned questioningly toward him, did he speak. “You were perfect, without flaw. I can't tell you--” he broke off, wordless. “I'm so glad--glad that you were pleased,” she whispered. They leant side by side over the bulwarks. They were quite alone, and the moon was rising. There are always liberating moments at sea when the spirit seems to grow--to expand to the limits of sky and water, to become one with them. Such a moment was theirs, the perfect hour of moonrise on a calm and empty sea. The horizon was undefined. They seemed suspended in limitless ether, which the riding moon pierced with a swale of living brightness, like quicksilver. They heard nothing save the hidden throb and creak of the ship, mysterious yet familiar, as the night itself. It was the perfect time. Stefan turned to her. Her face and hair shone silver, glorified. They looked at each other, their eyes strange in the moonlight. They seemed to melt together. His arms were round her, and they kissed. A little later he began to talk, and it was of his young mother, dead years ago in Michigan, that he spoke. “You are the only woman who has ever reminded me of her, Mary. The only one whose beauty has been so divinely kind. All my life has been lonely between losing her and finding you.” This thrilled her with an ache of mother-pity. She saw him misunderstood, unhappy, and instantly her heart wrapped him about with protection. In that moment his faults were all condoned--she saw them only as the fruits of his loneliness. Later, “Mary,” he said, “yours is the most beautiful of all names. Poets and painters have glorified it in every age, but none as I shall do”; and he kissed her adoringly.