He led her to the seat on which he had sunk in despair the night he came half-mad with pain to watch the masqueraders whirl past her lighted windows. The full moon wrapped the earth in the white mantle of Southern midsummer glory, and the night wind stirred, its breath laden with the rich perfume of every flower in full bloom. A katydid was singing a plaintive song in the tree above, and in the rose bushes near the porch a mocking-bird rehearsed in a burst of mad joy every love song of the feathered world. In low, rapid tones John told her the story of Robert Graham’s great love for his Huguenot grandmother and why he built the vault and secret way. She listened and furtively watched him struggling with his emotions. Suddenly he turned, looked tenderly into her eyes and took her hand. “After all, Miss Stella, what else matters on earth, when life has once been made glorious by a great, deathless love--such a love as that which has grown in my own heart for you.” Stella turned away to hide the flash of triumph with which her face was flushed. “Ah! don’t answer me now,” he rushed on. “I don’t ask it. I only beg the privilege of telling you--telling you how you have lifted my soul from the shadows of self and hate, and made life radiant and beautiful. I dare not hope that you love me yet--that you only hear me is enough. That I sit by your side and tell you is all I ask. My love is so deep, so full, so rich, so great, it is glory and life and strength within itself. I could die to-night and count my life a triumph, because I’ve seen you and loved you, and you have heard me. May I tell you all that is in my heart?” He leaned closer and pressed her hand gently. “Yes,” she whispered. “Why not?” “I dare not tell you why I pause to ask the question. I’ve sometimes thought that an impassable gulf yawned between us. To-night I’ve thrown such rubbish to the winds. There’s no gulf so wide, so deep and dark the heart of love may not leap it. Nothing matters save that I love you, that you smile and hear me!” “I am honoured in your love,” she answered gently. “Ah! you can never know how sweet it is to hear that from your dear lips. I cannot tell you the madness of the joy that fills me, when I realise that I have found in you all I’ve ever dreamed of beauty, tenderness and purity. All the songs of life that poets dream and find no words in which to sing, I feel within. If you should send me from your presence now, I’d laugh at Death for I have tasted Life! To win your love is all I ask of this world or the next--You will let me try?” “Yes,” said the low voice, as she placed her hand again in his. “Then I must go,” he said, rising and lifting her from the seat--“I’ve said enough to-night. I must go before I dare say too much and break the spell of joy that holds me.” At the door he asked. “I may come again to-morrow?” “Yes, at eight.” He bowed and kissed the tips of her fingers.