“And the poetry,—­and the love?”

“Yes.  The poetry much, and the love more.  To be loved by you is sweeter even than any of my dreams,—­is better than all the poetry I have read.”

“Dearest Lily,” and his unchecked arm stole round her waist.

“It is the meaning of the moonlight, and the essence of the poetry,” continued the impassioned girl.  “I did not know then why I liked such things, but now I know.  It was because I longed to be loved.”

“And to love.”

“Oh, yes.  I would be nothing without that.  But that, you know, is your delight,—­or should be.  The other is mine.  And yet it is a delight to love you; to know that I may love you.”

“You mean that this is the realisation of your romance.”

“Yes; but it must not be the end of it, Adolphus.  You must like the soft twilight, and the long evenings when we shall be alone; and you must read to me the books I love, and you must not teach me to think that the world is hard, and dry, and cruel,—­not yet.  I tell Bell so very often; but you must not say so to me.”

“It shall not be dry and cruel, if I can prevent it.”

“You understand what I mean, dearest.  I will not think it dry and cruel, even though sorrow should come upon us, if you—­ I think you know what I mean.”

“If I am good to you.”

“I am not afraid of that;—­I am not the least afraid of that.  You do not think that I could ever distrust you?  But you must not be ashamed to look at the moonlight, and to read poetry, and to—­”

“To talk nonsense, you mean.”

But as he said it, he pressed her closer to his side, and his tone was pleasant to her.

“I suppose I’m talking nonsense now?” she said, pouting.  “You liked me better when I was talking about the pigs; didn’t you?”

“No; I like you best now.”

“And why didn’t you like me then?  Did I say anything to offend you?”

“I like you best now, because—­”

They were standing in the narrow pathway of the gate leading from the bridge into the gardens of the Great House, and the shadow of the thick-spreading laurels was around them.  But the moonlight still pierced brightly through the little avenue, and she, as she looked up to him, could see the form of his face and the loving softness of his eye.

“Because—­,” said he; and then he stooped over her and pressed her closely, while she put up her lips to his, standing on tip-toe that she might reach to his face.

“Oh, my love!” she said.  “My love! my love!”

As Crosbie walked back to the Great House that night, he made a firm resolution that no consideration of worldly welfare should ever induce him to break his engagement with Lily Dale.  He went somewhat further also, and determined that he would not put off the marriage for more than six or eight months, or, at the most, ten, if he could possibly get his affairs arranged in that time.  To be sure, he must give up everything,—­all the aspirations and ambition of his life; but then, as he declared to himself somewhat mournfully, he was prepared to do that.  Such were his resolutions, and, as he thought of them in bed, he came to the conclusion that few men were less selfish than he was.