Miss Morris gave his hand a firm, friendly little pressure and drew her own away, as if he had taken hers only in an exuberance of good feeling.

“You have been very nice to us,” she said, with an effort to make her tone sound kindly and approving.  “And we—­”

“You mustn’t go; I can’t let you go,” said Carlton, hoarsely.  There was no mistaking his tone or his earnestness now.  “If you go,” he went on, breathlessly, “I must go with you.”

The girl moved restlessly; she leaned forward, and drew in her breath with a slight, nervous tremor.  Then she turned and faced him, almost as though she were afraid of him or of herself, and they sat so for an instant in silence.  The air seemed to have grown close and heavy, and Carlton saw her dimly.  In the silence he heard the splash of the fountain behind them, and the rustling of the leaves in the night wind, and the low, sighing murmur of a waltz.

He raised his head to listen, and she saw in the moonlight that he was smiling.  It was as though he wished to delay any answer she might make to his last words.

“That is the waltz,” he said, still speaking in a whisper, “that the gypsies played that night—­” He stopped, and Miss Morris answered him by bending her head slowly in assent.  It seemed to be an effort for her to even make that slight gesture.

“You don’t remember it,” said Carlton.  “It meant nothing to you.  I mean that night on the steamer when I told you what love meant to other people.  What a fool I was!” he said, with an uncertain laugh.

“Yes, I remember it,” she said—­“last Thursday night, on the steamer.”

“Thursday night!” exclaimed Carlton, indignantly.  “Wednesday night, Tuesday night, how should I know what night of the week it was?  It was the night of my life to me.  That night I knew that I loved you as I had never hoped to care for any one in this world.  When I told you that I did not know what love meant I felt all the time that I was lying.  I knew that I loved you, and that I could never love any one else, and that I had never loved any one before; and if I had thought then you could care for me, your engagement or your promises would never have stopped my telling you so.  You said that night that I would learn to love all the better, and more truly, for having doubted myself so long, and, oh, Edith,” he cried, taking both her hands and holding them close in his own, “I cannot let you go now!  I love you so!  Don’t laugh at me; don’t mock at me.  All the rest of my life depends on you.”

And then Miss Morris laughed softly, just as he had begged her not to do, but her laughter was so full of happiness, and came so gently and sweetly, and spoke so truly of content, that though he let go of her hands with one of his, it was only that he might draw her to him, until her face touched his, and she felt the strength of his arm as he held her against his breast.