the rocks just back of the tree by which we sat.  I tried on one occasion to reassure her by telling her it was so shallow that, with the moonlight streaming into it, I could see clear to the back wall, and arose to enter it to convince her there was no one there, but she clung to me in terror, saying:  “Don’t go!  Don’t leave me!  I was foolish to mention it.  I cannot account for my fear,—­and yet, do you know,” she continued in a low, frightened tone, “there is a shaft at the back of the cave that has, they say, no bottom, but goes down, —­down,—­down,—–­hundreds of feet to the sea?” It is useless, as you know only too well, to strive to reason down a presentiment, and so, instead, I sought to make use of her fear in the accomplishment of my dearest wish.  “Why need we,” I urged, “come here; why longer continue these clandestine meetings?  Let us be brave, darling, in our loves.  Your people have chosen another husband for you,—­my people another wife for me; but we are both quite able to choose for ourselves.  We have done so, and it is our most sacred duty to adhere to and consummate that choice.  Let us, I beseech you, do so without further delay.  Dearest, meet me here to-morrow night prepared for a journey.  We will take the late train for Matheron Station, where I have friends who can be trusted.  We will be married immediately upon our arrival, and can communicate by post with our respective families, remaining away from them until they are glad to welcome us with open arms.”

She raised some few objections to my plan and expressed some misgivings, but she loved me and I was able to reason away the one and kiss away the other, and with our souls upon our lips we parted for the night.  The last thing I had said to her,—­I remember it as if it all happened yesterday,—­was:  “Think of it, dear heart, there will be no more such partings between us after to-night!” and she had replied by silently nestling closer to me and twining her arms about my neck.  And so we parted on that never-to-be-forgotten night more than a score of years ago.

The twenty-four hours intervening between this parting and our next meeting may be passed over in silence, as nothing occurred during that time at all essential to the purpose this narrative subserves.  The longed-for time came at last and, with a depth of happiness I had never known before—­a peace passing all understanding—­I set out for Malabar Hill.  The night was perfect and the moonlight so bright I could distinctly see the air-roots of our trysting tree when more than a quarter of a mile away.  I thought at the time how this tree, with its crown of luxuriant foliage and its writhing roots, might well pass for some gigantic Medusa-head with its streaming serpent-hair.  As I neared the tree Lona stepped from behind it and awaited my approach.  She was even more impatient than I, I thought, and my heart beat more wildly than ever.  “Sweet saint, have I kept you waiting?”