"There's no need! See what a night it is!" and the beauty of it crept into her soul and stilled her voice. The moon rode in a blue sky, a disc of glowing white, the great cedar-trees flung their shadows wide over the bright lawns and not a branch stirred. "Listen," said Stella in a whisper and the river rippling against its banks with now a deep sob and now a fairy's laugh sang to them in notes most musical and clear. That liquid melody and the flutter of a bird's wings in the bough of a tree were the only sounds. They stood side by side, she looking out over the garden to the dim and pearly hills, he gazing at her uplifted face and the pure column of her throat. They stood in a most dangerous silence. The air came cool and fresh to their nostrils. Stella drew it in with a smile. "Good-night!" She laid her hand for a second on his arm. "Don't come with me!" "Why not?" And the answer came in a clear whisper: "I am afraid." Stella seemed to feel the man at her side suddenly grow very still. "It's only a step," she went on quickly and she passed out of the window on to the pathway. Dick Hazlewood followed but she turned to him and raised her hand. "Don't," she pleaded; the voice was troubled but her eyes were steady. "If you come with me I shall tell you." "What?" he interrupted, and the quickness of the interruption broke the spell which the night had laid upon her. "I shall tell you again how much I thank you," she said lightly. "I shall cross the meadow by the garden gate. That brings me to my door." She gathered her skirt in her hand and crossed the pathway to the edge of the grass. "You can't do that," exclaimed Dick and he was at her side. He stooped and felt the turf. "Even the lawn's drenched. Crossing the meadow you'll be ankle-deep in dew. You must promise never to go home across the meadow when you dine with us." He spoke, chiding her as if she had been a mutinous child, and with so much anxiety that she laughed. "You see, you have become rather precious to me," he added. Though the month was July she that night was all April, half tears, half laughter. The smile passed from her lips and she raised her hands to her face with the swiftness of one who has been struck. "What's the matter?" he asked, and she drew her hand away. "Don't you understand?" she asked, and answered the question herself. "No, why should you?" She turned to him suddenly, her bosom heaving, her hands clenched. "Do you know what place I fill here, in my own county? Years ago, when I was a child, there was supposed to be a pig-faced woman in Great Beeding. She lived in a small yellow cottage in the Square. It was pointed out to strangers as one of the sights of the town. Sometimes they were shown her shadow after dusk between the lamp and the blind. Sometimes you might have even caught a glimpse of her slinking late at night along the dark alleys. Well, the pig-faced woman has gone and I have taken her place." "No," cried Dick. "That's not true."