drawn to the bench, where they sat down, blissfully content.

They had such a number of things to tell one another about love. He who
had always scoffed at its existence was now eloquent in his explanation
of the mystery. And Halcyone, who had never had any doubts, put her
beautiful thoughts into words. Love meant everything--it was just he,
John Derringham. She was no more herself, but had come to dwell in him.

She was tender and absolutely pure in her broad loyalty, concealing
nothing of her fondness, letting him see that if she were Mistress of
the Night, he was Master of her Soul.

And the complete subservience of herself, the sublime transparency
without subterfuge of her surrender, appealed to everything of chivalry
which his nature held.

"Since the beginning," she whispered, in that soft, sweet voice of hers
which seemed to him to be of the angels, "ever since the beginning,
John, when I was a little ignorant girl, it has always been you. You
were Jason and Theseus and Perseus. You were Sir Bors and Sir Percival
and Sir Lancelot. And I knew it was just waiting--Fate."

"My sweet, my sweet," he murmured, kissing her hair.

"And the time you came, when I was so ugly," she went on, "and so
overgrown--I was sad then, because I knew you would not like me. But the
winds and the night were good to me. I have grown, you see, so that I am
now more as you would wish, but everything has been for you from that
first day in the tree--our tree."