sorts of unknown dangers in this unprotected condition?"

"Of course," he answered. "I am not afraid of the night air even in
October."

"Very well, very well, Morris," she went on, and there was meaning in
her voice; "then whatever happens don't blame me. It's so easy to be
rash and thoughtless and catch a chill, and then you may become an
invalid for life, or die, you know. One can't get rid of it again--at
least, not often."

Morris looked at her with a puzzled air, and stepped through the window
which he had opened, on to the lawn, whither, with a quaint little shrug
of her shoulders, Mary followed him, muttering to herself:

"Now if he takes cold, it won't be _my_ fault." Then she stopped,
clasped her hands, and said, "Oh! what a lovely night. I am glad that we
came out here."

She was right, it was indeed lovely. High in the heavens floated a
bright half-moon, across whose face the little white-edged clouds
drifted in quick succession, throwing their gigantic shadows to the
world beneath. All silver was the sleeping sea where the moonlight fell
upon it, and when this was eclipsed, then it was all jet. To the right
and left, up to the very borders of the cliff, lay the soft wreaths
of roke or land-fog, covering the earth as with a cloak of down, but
pierced here and there by the dim and towering shapes of trees. Yet
although these curling wreaths of mist hung on the edges of the cliff
like white water about to fall, they never fell, since clear to the
sight, though separated from them by a gulf of translucent blackness,