When I looked up again the shadow had vanished, and the west was grey and clear.

So in the tranquil evening we rowed homewards, our hearts too full for speech.  The wan moon rose and trod the waters, but we had no thoughts, no eyes for her.  Our eyes were looking into each other’s depths, our thoughts no thoughts at all, but rather a dazzled and wondering awe.

Only as a light or two gleamed out, and Streatley twinkled in the distance, Claire said—­

“Can it be true?  You know nothing of me.”

“I know you love me.  What more should I know, or wish to know?”

The red lips were pursed in a manner that spoke whole tomes of wisdom.

“You do not know that I work for my living all the week?”

“When you are mine you shall work no more.”

“‘But sit on a cushion and sew a gold seam’?  Ah, no; I have to work.  It is strange,” she said, musingly, “so strange.”

“What is strange, Claire?”

“That you have never seen me except on my holidays—­that we have never met.  What have you done since you have been in London?”

I thought of my walks and tireless quest in Oxford Street with a kind of shame.  That old life was severed from the present by whole worlds.

“I have lived very quietly,” I answered.  “But is it so strange that we have never met?”

She laughed a low and musical laugh, and as the boat drew shoreward and grounded, replied—­

“Perhaps not.  Come, let us go to mother—­Jasper.”

O sweet sound from sweetest lips!  We stepped ashore, and hand-in-hand entered the room where her mother sat.

As she looked up and saw us standing there together, she knew the truth in a moment.  Her blue eyes filled with sudden fear, her worn hand went upwards to her heart.  Until that instant she had not known of my presence there that day, and in a flash divined its meaning.

“I feared it,” she answered at length, as I told my story and stood waiting for an answer.  “I feared it, and for long have been expecting it.  Claire, my love, are you sure?  Oh, be quite sure before you leave me.”

For answer, Claire only knelt and flung her white arms round her mother’s neck, and hid her face upon her mother’s bosom.

“You love him now, you think; but, oh, be careful.  Search your heart before you rob me of it.  I have known love, too, Claire, or thought I did; and indeed it can fade—­and then, what anguish, what anguish!”

“Mother, mother!  I will never leave you.”

Mrs. Luttrell sighed.

“Ah, child, it is your happiness I am thinking of.”

“I will never leave you, mother.”

“And you, sir,” continued Mrs. Luttrell, “are you sure?  I am giving you what is dearer than life itself; and as you value her now, treat her worthily hereafter.  Swear this to me, if my gift is worth so much in your eyes.  Sir, do you know—­”