"'Course I will, Uncle Dick!" 

 "Then go you, Sir Knight, and keep faithful ward behind yon apple tree, and let no base varlet hither come; that is, if you see any one, be sure to tell me."  The Imp saluted and promptly disappeared behind the apple tree in question, while I stood watching Lisbeth's dexterous fingers and striving to remember a line from Keats descriptive of a beautiful woman in the moonlight. Before I could call it to mind, however, Lisbeth interrupted me. 

 "Don't you think you might pick up my shawl instead of staring at me as if I was—" 

 "The most beautiful woman in the world!" I put in. 

 "Who is catching her death of cold," she laughed, yet for all her light tone her eyes drooped before mine as I obediently wrapped the shawl about her, in the doing of which, my arm being round her, very naturally stayed there, and—wonder of wonders, was not repulsed. And at this very moment, from the shadowy trees behind us, came the rich, clear song of a nightingale. 

 Oh! most certainly the air was full of magic to-night! 

 "Dick," said Lisbeth very softly as the trilling notes died away, "I thought one could only dream such a night as this is." 

 "And yet life might hold many such for you and me, if you would only let it, Lisbeth," I reminded her. She did not answer. 

 "Not far from the village of Down, in Kent," I began. 

 "There stands a house," she put in, staring up at the moon with dreamy eyes. 

 "A very old house, with twisted Tudor chimneys and pointed gables—you see I have it all by heart, Dick—a house with wide stairways and long pannelled chambers—" 

 "Very empty and desolate at present," I added.  "And amongst other things, there is a rose-garden—they call it My Lady's Garden, Lisbeth, though no lady has trod its winding paths for years and years. But I have dreamed, many and many a time, that we stood among the roses, she and I, upon just such another night as this is. So I keep the old house ready and the gardens freshly trimmed, ready for my lady's coming; must I wait much longer, Lisbeth?"  As I ended the nightingale took up the story, pleading my cause for me, filling the air with a melody now appealing, now commanding, until it gradually died away in one long note of passionate entreaty. 

 Prev. P 53/113 next