mouth, to silence her while she herself might talk,—­her own fingers tipped with more sanguine shade than their native rose, her eyes full of the noon sparkle, and her lips parted with laughter,—­we cannot say.  Roger Raleigh forgot to move, to speak, to think, as he watched her.  But in the midst of this brilliant and novel gayety of hers, there was still a dignity to make one feel that she had by no means abandoned her regal purple, but merely adorned it with profuse golden flourishes.

At dinner that day, Helen begged to know if there were not a great many routes in the vicinity practicable only on horseback, and thought she had attained her end when Mr. Raleigh put his horses and his escort at the service of herself and Mrs. Laudersdale during their stay.

“During our stay!” said Mrs. Laudersdale.  “That reminds me that we are to go away!”

“Pleasantly, certainly.  When snows fall and storms pipe, the Bawn is an icehouse,” said he.

After noon, the remainder of the day was interspersed with light thunder-showers, rendering tea on the grass again impossible; they passed the steaming cups, therefore, as they sat on the piazza curtained with dripping woodbine.  The glitter of the drops in the sunset light, a jewelled scintillation, was caught in Mrs. Laudersdale’s eyes, and some unconscious excitement fanned a faint color to and fro on her cheek.  At last the moon rose; the whole party, regardless of wet slippers, sauntered with Mr. Raleigh to the shore, where the little Arrow hung balancing on her restraining cord.  Mrs. Laudersdale stepped in, Mr. Raleigh followed, took up an oar, and pushed out, both standing, and drifting slowly for a few rods’ distance; then Mr. Raleigh made the shore again, assisted her out, and shot impatiently away alone.  The waters shone like white fire in the wake he cut, great shadows fall through them where island and wood intercepted the broad ascending light, and Mrs. Laudersdale’s gay laugh rung across them, as the space grew,—­a sweet, rich laugh, that all the spirits of the depths caught and played with like a rare beam that transiently illumined their shadowy, silent haunts.

The next day, and the next, and so for a fortnight, Mr. Roger Raleigh presented himself with the breakfast-urn at the Bawn, tarried during sunshine, slipped home by starlight across the lake.  Every day Mrs. Laudersdale was more brilliant, and flashed with a cheery merriment like harmless summer-lightnings.  One night, as he pushed away from the bank, he said,—­

“Au revoir for five hours.”

“For five hours?” said Mrs. Laudersdale.

“For five hours.”

“At half-past three in the night?”

“In the morning.”

“And what brings you here at dead of dark?”

“The lilies and the dawn.”

“Indeed!  And whom do you expect to find?”

“You and Miss Helen.”

“Well, summer and freedom are here; I am ready for all fates, all deeds of valor, vigils among the rest.  We will await you at half-past three in the morning.  Helen, we must sleep at high-pressure, soundly, crowding all we can on the square inch of time. Au revoir.”