broke out, absolute peace flooded Stefan's heart.

In a dream he waited for her at the saloon door, held her coat, and
mounted beside her to the boat deck. Not until they stood side by side at
the rail, and she turned questioningly toward him, did he speak.

"You were perfect, without flaw. I can't tell you--" he broke off,
wordless.

"I'm so glad--glad that you were pleased," she whispered.

They leant side by side over the bulwarks. They were quite alone, and the
moon was rising. There are always liberating moments at sea when the
spirit seems to grow--to expand to the limits of sky and water, to
become one with them. Such a moment was theirs, the perfect hour of
moonrise on a calm and empty sea. The horizon was undefined. They seemed
suspended in limitless ether, which the riding moon pierced with a swale
of living brightness, like quicksilver. They heard nothing save the
hidden throb and creak of the ship, mysterious yet familiar, as the night
itself. It was the perfect time. Stefan turned to her. Her face and hair
shone silver, glorified. They looked at each other, their eyes strange in
the moonlight. They seemed to melt together. His arms were round her, and
they kissed.

A little later he began to talk, and it was of his young mother, dead
years ago in Michigan, that he spoke. "You are the only woman who has
ever reminded me of her, Mary. The only one whose beauty has been so
divinely kind. All my life has been lonely between losing her and finding
you."