Sisters. Ada Cambridge

last touch of magic, the moon swam up—the same moon that had transfigured Five Creeks garden and Alice Urquhart last night.

      He poured out his soul to Deborah Pennycuick.

      First, it was only the story of the baby—the story he had told Alice, with some omissions and additions. He took advantage of the opportunity to ask Deb's invaluable advice.

      Deb, well aware of the influence of a summer night and certain accessories, tried her best to be practical. She asked straight questions about the baby.

      "Where have you got him? Where does this friend live who has been recommended to you?"

      "In Sandridge—all at Sandridge—"

      "That dirty, low part! That's no place to rear a boy in. Bring him into the bush, to clean air, if you want to make a man of him. I know a dear, nice woman—she is our overseer's wife—who has no children, and is dying to get hold of one somehow or other. We might make some arrangement with her, I am sure; and, if so, the little fellow would be in clover. We'd all look after him, of course, while you were at sea—"

      "Oh! oh! oh!" The young father's heart simply exhaled itself in gratitude too vast for words. Ah! there was no hanging back now! Not the baby only, but the dog-chain, was laid at Deborah's feet.

      "You go and fetch him tomorrow," said she, "and I'll talk to Mrs. Kelsey while you are away. Then I'll meet you at the station on your return, to help you with him, and tell you what Mrs. Kelsey says—though I have no doubt of what it will be. But we'll keep him at Redford for a bit, till he gets used to everybody; and you must stay with him all you can until your ship sails. … "

      His eyes were full of tears. He laid his hand on her shawl again. He leaned to her. It was no use—the moon and his feelings were too much for him. They were talking of the baby, and the word "love" had not been, and was not going to be, mentioned; but there the thing was, unmistakable to her keen intelligence, looming like a frontier custom-house on the road ahead.

      She grasped his big, trembling hand, and with it held him back, meeting his adoring gaze with steady eyes and mouth.

      "My dear boy, don't—don't! Don't spoil this nice evening—"

      It was all that was necessary. And still so kind, so gentle with him! No scorn, no offended dignity, no displeasure even. She, who could punish insolence with anybody, was never hard upon the humble admirer—only too soft, in fact, with all her basic firmness, and incapable of the hard-hearted coquetry that so commonly makes beauty vile. "Face of waxen angel, with paw of desert beast"—that was not Deborah Pennycuick.

      A sob broke from him.

      "I am a damned fool!" he muttered savagely, and by a violent effort collected himself. "I beg your pardon."

      "That's all right," she said, turning the ponies from the embankment and whipping them to a gallop.