Martin’s nostril curled.

“Are you prepared,” he said, “to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you not?”

“I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!”

Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow.  Retaining it luxuriously, he said:  “Don’t wander!”

Thyme tried to free her arm.  “Let go!”

Martin was looking straight into her eyes.  A flush had risen in his cheeks.

Thyme, too, went the colour of the old-rose curtain behind which she sat.

“Let go!”

“I won’t!  I’ll make you know your mind.  What do you mean to do?  Are you coming in a fit of sentiment, or do you mean business?”

Suddenly, half-hypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle.  Her face had the strangest expression of submission and defiance—­a sort of pain, a sort of delight.  So they sat full half a minute staring at each other’s eyes.  Hearing a rustling sound, they looked, and saw Bianca moving to the door.  Cecilia, too, had risen.

“What is it, B.?”

Bianca, opening the door, went out.  Cecilia followed swiftly, too late to catch even a glimpse of her sister’s face behind the veil...

In Mr. Stone’s room the green lamp burned dimly, and he who worked by it was sitting on the edge of his campbed, attired in his old brown woollen gown and slippers.

And suddenly it seemed to him that he was not alone.

“I have finished for to-night,” he said.  “I am waiting for the moon to rise.  She is nearly full; I shall see her face from here.”

A form sat down by him on the bed, and a voice said softly: 

“Like a woman’s.”

Mr. Stone saw his younger daughter.  “You have your hat on.  Are you going out, my dear?”

“I saw your light as I came in.”

“The moon,” said Mr. Stone, “is an arid desert.  Love is unknown there.”

“How can you bear to look at her, then?” Bianca whispered.

Mr. Stone raised his finger.  “She has risen.”

The wan moon had slipped out into the darkness.  Her light stole across the garden and through the open window to the bed where they were sitting.

“Where there is no love, Dad,” Bianca said, “there can be no life, can there?”

Mr. Stone’s eyes seemed to drink the moonlight.

“That,” he said, “is the great truth.  The bed is shaking!”

With her arms pressed tight across her breast, Bianca was struggling with violent, noiseless sobbing.  That desperate struggle seemed to be tearing her to death before his eyes, and Mr. Stone sat silent, trembling.  He knew not what to do.  From his frosted heart years of Universal Brotherhood had taken all knowledge of how to help his daughter.  He could only sit touching her tremulously with thin fingers.

The form beside him, whose warmth he felt against his arm, grew stiller, as though, in spite of its own loneliness, his helplessness had made it feel that he, too; was lonely.  It pressed a little closer to him.  The moonlight, gaining pale mastery over the flickering lamp, filled the whole room.