It was the dark of the moon, and even if there had been full moon its light would have been as completely shut out by the cloud canopy as was the mild diffusion of the blue-grey twilight.  So it happened that, as Ralph Peden took his way to his first love-tryst, it was all that he could do to keep the path, so dark had it become.  But there was no rain—­hardly yet even the hint or promise of rain.

Yet under the cloud there was a great solitariness—­the murmur of a land where no man had come since the making of the world.  Down in the sedges by the lake a blackcap sang sweetly, waesomely, the nightingale of Scotland.  Far on the moors a curlew cried out that its soul was lost.  Nameless things whinnied in the mist-filled hollows.  On the low grounds there lay a white mist knee-deep, and Ralph Peden waded in it as in a shallow sea.  So in due time he came near to the place of his tryst.

Never had he stood so before.  He stilled the beating of his heart with his hand, so loud and riotous it was in that silent place.  He could hear, loud as an insurrection, the quick, unequal double-knocking in his bosom.

A grasshopper, roosting on a blade of grass beneath, his feet, tumbled off and gave vent to his feelings in a belated “chirr.”  Overhead somewhere a raven croaked dismally and cynically at intervals.  Ralph’s ears heard these things as he waited, with every sense on the alert, at the place of his love-tryst.

He thrilled with the subtle hope of strange possibilities.  A mill-race of pictures of things sweet and precious ran through his mind.  He saw a white-spread table, with Winsome seated opposite to himself, tall, fair, and womanly, the bright heads of children between them.  And the dark closed in.  Again he saw Winsome with her head on his arm, standing looking out on the sunrise from the hilltop, whence they had watched it not so long ago.  The thought brought him to his pocket-book.  He took it out, and in the darkness touched his lips to the string of the lilac sunbonnet.  It surely must be past ten now, he thought.  Would she not come?  He had, indeed, little right to ask her, and none at all to expect her.  Yet he had her word of promise—­one precious line.  What would he say to her when she came?  He would leave that to be settled when his arms were about her.  But perhaps she would be colder than before.  They would sit, he thought, on the parapet of the bridge.  There were no fir-branches to part them with intrusive spikes.  So much at least should be his.

But then, again, she might not come at all!  What more likely than that she had been detained by her grandmother?  How could he expect it?  Indeed, he told himself he did not expect it.  He had come out here because it was a fine night, and the night air cooled his brain for his studies.  His heart, hammering on his life’s anvil, contradicted him.  He could not have repeated the Hebrew alphabet.  His head, bent a little forward in the agony of listening, whirled madly round; the ambient darkness surrounding all.