“Bless your heart,” said Jerry, lifting her fingertips to his lips, “I won’t utter a syllable, good or bad, without your express permission.  You’ll come, then?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said, allowing the smile that would not be suppressed.  “But if you don’t make it very nice, I shall never come again.”

“All right,” said Jerry cheerily.  “I’ll bring my banjo.  You always like that.  Come early, like a saint.  I’ll be at the boat-house at eleven.”

He was; and Nan was not long after.  The lake stretched for about a mile in the squire’s park, and many were the happy hours that they had spent upon it.

It was a day of perfect summer, and they drifted through it in sublime enjoyment.  Jerry soon discovered that the girl’s marriage and anything remotely connected with it were subjects to be avoided, and as he had no great wish himself to investigate in that direction he found small difficulty in confining himself to more familiar ground.  Without effort they resumed the old friendly intercourse that the girl’s rash step had threatened to cut short, and long before the end of the afternoon they were as intimate as they had ever been.

“You mustn’t go in yet,” insisted Jerry, when a distant clock struck seven.  “Wait another couple of hours.  There’s plenty of food left.  And the moonrise will be grand to-night.”

Nan did not need much persuading.  She had always loved the lake, and Jerry’s society was generally congenial.  He had, moreover, been taking special pains to please her, and she was quite willing to be pleased.

She consented, therefore, and Jerry punted her across to her favourite nook for supper.  She thoroughly enjoyed the repast, Jerry’s ideas of what a picnic-basket should contain being of a decidedly lavish order.

The meal over, he took up his banjo and waxed sentimental.  Nan lay among her cushions and listened in sympathetic silence.  Undeniably Jerry knew how to make music, and he also knew when to stop—­a priceless gift in Nan’s estimation.

When the moon rose at last out of the summer haze, he had laid his instrument aside and was lying with his head on his arms and his face to the rising glory.  They watched it dumbly in the silence of goodfellowship, till at last it topped the willows and shone in a broad, silver streak across the lake right up to the prow of the boat.

After a long time Jerry turned his dark head.

“I say, Nan!” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Yes?” she murmured back, her eyes still full of the splendour.  The boy raised himself a little.

“Do you remember that day ever so long ago when we played at being sweethearts on this very identical spot?” he asked her softly.

She turned her eyes to his with a doubtful, questioning look.

“We weren’t in earnest, Jerry,” she reminded him.

He jerked one shoulder with a sharp, impatient gesture, highly characteristic of him.