‘I tell you what it is,’ said John, ‘you want a little fresh air, Nita. Suppose you and Wellfield come with Aunt Margaret and me to the gate. You are afraid to go alone, you know, being such a coward.’ Nita smiled faintly. ‘Here’s a shawl,’ pursued John. ‘I’ll put it round your shoulders—so.’ She passively allowed him to fold the little cashmere about her shoulders, and when Aunt Margaret came down, and handed John her umbrella to carry, she called out: ‘Papa, Mr. Wellfield and I are going to see the others to the gate.’ ‘Folly!’ observed Miss Shuttleworth, casually, but no one took any notice of her. They all went out at the window together, Nita with her hand through John’s arm. They went lingeringly through the garden, and down the river walk to the great cavernous gateway called ‘Abbot’s Gate.’ It was indeed a glorious night, one in a thousand, perfect, still, and clear, and around them was everything which can add to the glamour and beauty of a moonlight night. They parleyed a few moments with John and Miss Shuttleworth at the gate, and then it was shut after them with a loud resounding clang, which echoed through the hollow archway. They were alone again. ‘Draw the big bolt,’ said Nita, scarcely above a whisper, ‘then we shall know it is safe.’ ‘Safe from whom? Leyburn, or Miss Shuttleworth—or both?’ asked Wellfield. ‘From all—all evil things,’ answered Nita. ‘Complimentary to them,’ he said, lightly, finding the big bolt, and drawing it without difficulty. He knew it of old, and having pushed it to its place, they stood within the dark space, and looked at the flood of grey moonlight which bathed the river walk that stretched before them. Jerome drew Nita’s arm through his, and they passed out of the darkness into that moonlight. Nita turned her steps towards a small wicket, leading by a nearer path to her home, and the drawing-room window. ‘You don’t mean to go that way, and leave the river walk, and this glorious moonlight!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would be a sin. It is not late. Come this way.’ For a moment she wavered; then turned and went with him. Jerome did not confess it to himself, but down in the depths of his heart he knew he was doing what was base. They went very slowly along the grassy walk, on which the dew lay like grey gossamer in the moon-rays, and for a little time neither spoke, till Jerome said softly: ‘Will you trust me to drive you another day, Miss Bolton?’ ‘I? Why not?’ said Nita, faintly. ‘Will you promise to go out with me another day, that I may be sure you have forgiven me my carelessness?’ ‘I—is there anything to forgive?’ ‘I think so. If I had not been talking sentimental nonsense to you, you would not have forgotten to look after your horses, and then——’ ‘Do not let us say any more about it,’ said she. ‘I shall never forget it to my dying day, but I hate to think of it.’ ‘It has shaken you sadly; but will you go out with me another day?’ ‘Oh yes! To-morrow if you like.’