something subtler and more magnetic, which could sway more than the
tides, even the passions of the human heart, present, and they both
felt it.

Neither had said much, and they had been sitting there nearly two
hours, when Richard had arisen, and moved curiously, rather as if he
was drawn than walked of his own volition, over to the sofa. He sank
down upon it with a little cough. Sylvia moved away a little with an
involuntary motion, which was pure maidenliness.

"It's getting late," remarked Richard, trying to make his voice
careless, but it fell in spite of him into deep cadences.

"It ain't very late, I guess," Sylvia had returned, tremblingly.

"I ought to be going home."

Then there was silence for a while. Sylvia glanced sidewise, timidly
and adoringly, at Richard's smoothly shaven face, pale as marble in
the moonlight, and waited, her heart throbbing.

[Illustration: "Sylvia glanced timidly at Richard's smoothly-shaven
face"]

"I've been coming here a good many years," Richard observed finally,
and his own voice had a solemn tremor.

Sylvia made an almost inarticulate assent.

"I've been thinking lately," said Richard; then he paused. They could