The peaceful beauty of the night melted his heart and soothed his troubled brain like an anodyne. All was peace abroad; and whose peace could it be but God's? How the white moonlight swept worry and doubt and tumult away! In the light of day man might lift impious eyes to heaven, for he was drunk with a foolish sense of security and importance. In the dark of night man was exposed to a thousand unmanly fears. But who could look upon the moonlight and not feel the assurance that God was near, and was the friend of man? Moonlight was the white altar-cloth of earth, and when it was spread the heart of man must send up the incense of worship. Now was not the hour to sing _Miserere_ but _Laudamus_. Here was no oppressive consciousness of sin, no abject pleading for mercy. Here were simple worship and confidence. No repining, no doubt, no superstitious fears or vague misgivings; no arrogance, but a full quiet sense of protection and future advancement, and of worship and love. Much has been said about the moonlight and lovers, but it seemed more fit for solitary commune between man and his Maker. Why was not life all moonlight? Why had we ever the fiery heat and passion of noon? What fools men are to allow themselves to be dragged this way and that at the beck of every passion, at the call of every party, at the decree of every sect? Were not this world here around, this beautiful moon, and the all-just God in heaven above, enough for the heart and soul of man? Ample. What could be added to these three things? After all, there may be much in the quietist's ideas. A man might do worse, provided he had no home ties, than spend his life in the vineyards and on the olive-clad slopes of Mount Athos. It was late when Osborne pulled down the blind, drew the curtains, and faced his room once more. The gas was burning brightly: its flame had warmed the room. Still he felt no inclination to go to bed. There was an old-fashioned elbow-chair by the dressing-table, and on one side of the dressing-table the books lent him by Nevill; on the other side those lent him that night by Parkinson. He took the latter pile, consisting of five books, and, holding them pressed together between his right and left hand, he read the backs carefully. He should never be able to look through these books with more unconcern than this night, the night of the betrothal, a scathless visit to Parkinson, that calm and peaceful commune with God above the moonlit city. Three o'clock struck, and he read on. Four, five, six, and still he did not rise from that chair. At seven he had finished the book, and at seven he rose, went to the window, and once more pulled back the curtains and drew up the blind. The moon had set. The sun had not yet risen.