I, too, rose with a shudder, half-believing, half-sceptical, yet none the less with a strong distaste for the memory of the story I had just heard.  I left Hilyard arranging the shelf of his cabinet, and opening the long French window I walked out on the lawn.

Under the elm I saw Mrs. Mershon, Amy’s aunt, with whom we were all staying.  Kate Mershon was idly tossing a tennis-ball into the air, and making ineffectual strokes at it with a racquet, and at Mrs. Mershon’s feet sat Amy, reading, the golden sunlight resting tenderly on her head, and bringing out the reddish tones of her hair.  We were to be married in a month, and she looked so beautiful in the peace and quiet of the waning day, that I wished we two were alone that I might take her in my yearning arms and raise that exquisite colorless face to my lips.  She never seemed so lovely as when contrasted with Kate’s mature, sensual beauty, dark and rich as the Creole, and completely devoid of that touch of the pure and heavenly without which no woman’s face is perfect to me.  Amy was brilliant, full of raillery at times, but in the depths of those great clear eyes, like agates, in the candor of that white face, like a tea-rose, one read the beautiful chastity of soul in whose presence passion becomes mixed with a reverence that sanctifies it.

Later that evening, when the drawing-room was gay with light and music, and Kate was singing one of Judie’s least objectionable songs, with a verve and grace of gesture that the prima donna herself need not have despised, Amy and I went out on the moonlit lawn, leaving Hilyard leaning over the piano, and Mrs. Mershon sleeping peacefully in a corner.  We strolled up and down the gravelled path in a silence more pregnant than words, and I felt my darling’s hands clasped on my arm, and heard her gown sweep the little pebbles along the walk.

Something brought to my mind the conversation with Hilyard, and I half thought to repeat it, but the night seemed too peaceful to sully by telling a tale of such horrors, and beside, I fancied Amy disliked Hilyard, although he had been intimate with the family for years, and in fact, he and Amy had almost grown up together; but he had been travelling for three years, and since his return Amy declared that he had grown cynical and hard, and altogether disagreeable, and as I really liked him, although our ideas on most subjects were radically opposed, I thought I would not connect him, in Amy’s mind, with an unpleasant story.

I looked down into the delicate face lifted to mine, and pressed a fervent kiss on the cream-white cheek.  There was usually, even in her tenderest moments, a certain virginal shrinking from a caress that was an added charm, but to-night she moved closer to my side, and even touched her lips to mine shyly, an occurrence so rare that I trembled with joy, realizing as never before, that this sweet white flower was all my own.  I wanted to kiss her again, and with