The sun was cold, the dark dead Moon  
Hung low behind dull leaden bars,
 
And you came barefoot down the sky
 
Between the grey unlighted Stars.
 
You laid your hand upon my soul,
 
My soul that cried to you for rest,
 
And all the light of the lost Sun
 
Was in the comfort of your breast.
 
There was no veil upon your heart,
 
There was no veil upon your eyes;
 
I did not know the Stars were dim,
 
Nor long for that dead Moon to rise.
 
They dined with Edward and Mary next day.
 
The centipedes were still , and Edward made tentative to David on the subject of the case after dinner.
 
“Edward is the soul of hospitality,” David said afterwards. “He keeps his best to the end. First, a good dinner, then some comparatively enjoyable music, and, last of all, the superlatively centipedes.”
 
 
At the time, he complied with a very good grace. He even a respectable degree of enthusiasm when the subject came up.
 
It was Mary who insisted on the comparatively agreeable music.
 
“No—I will not have you two going off by yourselves the moment you’ve swallowed your dinner. It’s not good for people. Edward will certainly have indigestion—yes, Edward, you know you will. Come and have coffee with us in a proper and decent fashion, and we’ll have some music, and then you shall do anything you like, and I’ll talk to Elizabeth.”
 
Edward sang only one song, and then said that he was , which was not true. But Elizabeth was glad when the door closed upon him and David, for the song Edward had sung was the one thing on earth which she felt least able to hear. He sang, O Moon of my Delight, transposed by Mary to suit his voice, and he sang it with his usual tuneful correctness.
 
Elizabeth looked up only once, and that was just at the end. David was looking at her with a frown of perplexity. But as Edward remarked that he was hoarse, David passed his hand across his eyes for a moment, as if to brush something away, and rose with to leave the room.
 
When they were gone Mary drew a chair close to her sister and sat down. She was rather silent for a time, and Elizabeth was beginning to find it hard to keep her own thoughts at bay, when Mary said in a new, gentle voice:
 
“Liz, I’m so happy.”
 
“Are you, Molly?” She rather absently, and Mary became softly offended.
 
“Don’t you want to know why, Liz? I don’t believe you care a bit. I don’t believe you’d mind if I were ever so , now that you’ve got David, and are happy yourself!”
 
Elizabeth came back to her surroundings.
 
“Oh, Molly, what a goose you are, and what a monster you make me out. What is it, Mollykins, tell me?”
 
“I’ve a great mind not to. I don’t believe you really care. I wouldn’t tell you a word, only I can’t help it. Oh, Liz, I’m going to have a baby, and I thought I never should. I was making myself wretched about it.”
 
She caught Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it.
 
“Oh, Liz, be glad for me. I’m so glad and happy, and I want some one to be glad too. You don’t know how I’ve wanted it. No one knows. I’ve simply hated all the people in the Morning Post who had babies. I’ve not even read the first column for weeks, and when Sybil Delamere sent me an invitation to her baby’s christening—she was married the same day I was, you know—I just tore it up and burnt it. ............