Mrs. Laudersdale had shrunk into the shadow of the curtain.  Perhaps she did not hear the question; for her reply, that did not come at once, was the fragment of a Provencal romance, sung,—­and sung in a voice neither sweet nor rich, but of a certain personal force as potent as either, and a stifled strength of tone that made one tremble.

  “We’re all alone, we’re all alone! 
  The moon and stars are dead and gone,
  The night’s at deep, the winds asleep,
  And thou and I are all alone!

  “What care have we, though life there be? 
  Tumult and life are not for me! 
  Silence and sleep about us creep: 
  Tumult and life are not for thee!

  “How late it is since such as this
  Had topped the height of breathing bliss! 
  And now we keep an iron sleep,—­
  In that grave thou, and I in this!”

Her voice yet shivered through the room, he struck a chord of dead conclusion, the curtain stirred, she emerged from the gloom and was gone.

Mr. Raleigh rose and bade his cousin good-night.  Mrs. McLean, however, took his arm and sauntered with him down the lawn.

“I thought Capua came with you,” she remarked.

“He returned in a spare wherry, some time since,” he replied; and thereon they made a few paces in silence.

“Roger,” said the little lady, taking breath preparatory to wasting it, “I thought Helen was a coquette.  I’ve changed my mind.  The fault is yours.”

He turned and looked down at her with some surprise.

“You know we haven’t much more time, and certainly”——­

“Kate!”

“Yes,—­don’t scold!—­and if you are going to propose, I really think you ought to, or else”——­

“You think I ought to marry Miss Heath?”

“Why—­I—­well——­Oh, dear!  I wish I had held my peace!”

“That might have been advisable.”

“Don’t be offended now, Roger!”

“Is there any reason to suppose her—­to suppose me”——­

“Yes, there!” replied Mrs. McLean, desperately.

He was silent a moment.

“Good God, Kate!” said he, then, clasping his hands behind his head, and looking up the deep transparence of the unanswering night.  “What a blessing it is that life don’t last forever!”

“But it does, Roger,” she uttered under her breath,—­terrified at his abrupt earnestness, and unwitting what storm she had aroused.

“The formula changes,” he replied, with his old air, and retracing their steps.

The guests were all gone.  Helen Heath was eating an ice; he bent over her chair and said,—­

“Good-night, Miss Helen!”

“Oh, good-night, Mr. Raleigh!  You are going?  Well, we’re all going soon.  What a glorious summer it has been!  Aren’t you sorry we must part?”

“Why must we part?” he asked in a lower tone.  “Where is the necessity of our parting?  Why won’t you stay forever, Helen?”