Ned Wentworth had been standing in the black shadow of a great walnut tree, watching the throbbing of Margaret’s full throat as her rich notes poured out their benediction upon the still night air. His heart expanded so painfully that it seemed it must burst; her beauty actually hurt him. He looked hungrily at the great coils of heavy auburn hair, gleaming with gold under the magical light of the autumn moon; he saw as if for the first time the healthy pallor of her clear skin thrown into relief as she lifted her face upward in her invocation to the Queen of Night; he followed the line of the fine throat that swept into and was absorbed by the noble curve of her bust; and he clenched his fists with his effort to control himself—he felt that he could no longer refrain from telling her how madly he loved her.

He stepped impulsively toward her as the last gorgeous notes quivered upon the cool silence and died softly away. She paused, hands still outstretched as she had stood while singing, lost in the maze of emotion that had suddenly swept over her at Ned’s impulsive movement. Rich scarlet began to mount in her cheeks until they blazed hotly under the tranquil light of the cold Lady of Night. Into the broad sweep of moonlight beside her stepped her lover, his gray eyes almost black with the intensity of his feeling; he did not speak, nor did she. It appeared to them that they had both been waiting for this very moment all their lives.

Margaret was quite motionless, her head very high, dark eyes on his face steadily, gravely, as if the wonder and richness of her emotion were too great to be carried off lightly. Ned took another step forward, a movement that brought her still outstretched arms to his shoulders, upon which her light palms dropped tenderly.

“Margie! Then it is true? You love me?”

He swept her into his embrace; her arms met about his neck and he felt her hands caressing his hair. Sudden self-consciousness fell upon them and they drew back into the shade of the walnut lest they be observed from the house.

-2-

With such careless haste that the chessmen were tossed hither and thither, Father Rooney sprang from his chair and across the room.

“What ails our little girl?” cried the old priest, deeply disturbed.

Dr. Sloane got out of his chair with more difficulty; sciatica had made a semi-invalid of him for months. He joined the other man who leaned over Clare. The blond head lay on outstretched arms across the windowsill. So motionless was she that for a terrible moment her father felt the clutching fear which his love for the daughter so like his dead wife made more terrible.