others. Yet I could not see Charlotte without calling on my
parents.

As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone
had seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same
beautiful girl I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde,
wavy mass of hair, the laughing mouth and the gladness. But she
was not glad now. It was almost a repetition of what had happened
at home, only here a bit more personal. She clung to me almost in
terror. I didn't realise I had gone down so much. I knew my
weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance so dejected. I
remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn. After what
brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the
moonlight.

It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue
under the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she
clung to my arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but
compare her with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was
fresh, tender, affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known
her all my life; there was no doubt of our love.

Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out
of life--almost--out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up.
The great full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.

"Harry," asked Charlotte, "who is the Nervina?"

Had I spoken?