There was a warm, flower-scented breeze stirring the heavy foliage drenched with the silver rain of moonlight, and the shrilling of innumerable small voices of the night. It all belonged; yet neither the man nor the woman noticed anything except each other; nor heard anything save the words the other uttered.

“To think that you love me, Lydia!” he said, triumph and humility curiously mingled in his voice.

“How could I help it, Jim? I could never have borne it all, if you—”

“Really, Lydia?”

He looked down into her face which the moonlight had spiritualized to the likeness of an angel.

She smiled and slipped her hand into his.

They were alone in the universe, so he stooped and kissed her, murmuring inarticulate words of rapture.

After uncounted minutes they walked slowly on, she within the circle of his arm, her blond head against the shoulder of his rough tweed coat.

“When shall it be, Lydia?” he asked.

She blushed—even in the moonlight he could see the adorable flutter of color in her face.

“I am all alone in the world, Jim,” she said, rather sadly. “I have no one but you.”

“I'll love you enough to make up for forty relations!” he declared. “And, anyway, as soon as we're married you'll have mother and Fan and—er—”

He made a wry face, as it occurred to him for the first time that the Reverend Wesley Elliot was about to become Lydia's............