with a silver radiance, and the few people who walked about threw black
shadows on the greensward and gravel. In an arbor at the farthest end of
the garden a number of Chinese lanterns shed a dim colored light on a
table and a few rocking-chairs. There were cigarettes on the table.

By and by from out of the brilliancy of the tent stepped Macleod and
Fionaghal herself, she leaning on his arm, a light scarf thrown round
her neck. She uttered a slight cry of surprise when she saw the picture
this garden presented--the colored cups on the trees, the swinging
lanterns, the broader sheen of the moonlight spreading over the foliage,
and the lawn, and the walks.

"It is like fairyland!" she said.

They walked along the winding gravel-paths; and now that some familiar
quadrille was being danced in that brilliant tent, there were fewer
people out here in the moonlight.

"I should begin to believe that romance was possible," she said, with a
smile, "if I often saw a beautiful scene like this. It is what we try to
get in the theatre; but I see all the bare boards and the lime light--I
don't have a chance of believing in it."

"Do you have a chance of believing in anything," said he, "on the
stage?"

"I don't understand you," she said, gently; for she was sure he would
not mean the rudeness that his words literally conveyed.

"And perhaps I cannot explain," said he. "But--but your father was