Later in the evening of this same eventful day, as Mr. Raleigh and Marguerite sat together in the moonlight that flooded the great window, Mrs. Laudersdale passed them and went down the garden to the lake.  She wore some white garment, as in her youth, and there was a dreamy sweetness in her eye and an unspoken joy about her lips.  Mr. Raleigh could not help thinking it was a singular happiness, this that opened before her; it seemed to be like a fruit plucked from the stem and left to mature in the sunshine by itself, late and lingering, never sound at heart.  She floated on, with the light in her dusky eyes and the seldom rose on her cheek,—­floated on from moonbeam to moonbeam,—­and the lovers brought back their glances and gave them to each other.  For one, life opened a labyrinth of warmth and light and joy; for the other, youth was passed, destiny not to be appeased:  if his affection enriched her, the best he could do was to bestow it; in his love there would yet be silent reservations.

“Mr. Raleigh,” said Marguerite, “did you ever love my mother?”

“Once I thought I did.”

“And now?”

“Whereas I was blind, now I see.”

“Listen!  Mrs. Purcell is singing in the drawing-room.”

  “Through lonely summers, where the roses blow
  Unsought, and shed their tangled sweets,
  I sit and hark, or in the starry dark,
  Or when the night-rain on the hill-side beats.

  “Alone!  But when the eternal summers flow
  And refluent drown in song all moan,
  Thy soul shall waste for its delight, and haste
  Through heaven.  And I shall be no more alone!”

“What a voice she sings with to-night!” said Marguerite.  “It is stripped of all its ornamental disguises,—­so slender, yet piercing!”

“A needle can pain like a sword-blade.  There goes the moon in clouds.  Hark!  What was that?  A cry?” And he started to his feet.

“No,” she said,—­“it is only the wild music of the lake, the voices of shadows calling to shadows.”

“There it is again, but fainter; the wind carries it the other way.”

“It is a desolating wind.”

“And the light on the land is like that of eclipse!”

He stooped and raised her and folded her in his arms.

“I have a strange, terrible sense of calamity, Mignonne!” he said.  “Let it strike, so it spare you!”

“Nothing can harm us,” she replied, clinging to him.  “Even death cannot come between us!”

“Marguerite!” said Mr. Laudersdale, entering, “where is your mother?”

“She went down to the lake, Sir.”

“She cannot possibly have gone out upon it!”

“Oh, she frequently does; and so do we all.”

“But this high wind has risen since.  The flaws”——­And he went out hastily.