She had the sunbonnet in her lap; the moon shone full upon her face.

And it seemed to him that he was in a dream; there was nowhere a suggestion of reality--not of its prose, not even of its poetry.

Only in the land no waking eye has seen could such a thing be.

The low sweet voice sang of love, the oars clicked rhythmically in the locks and clove the water with musical splash; the river, between its steep hills, shone in the moonlight, with a breeze like a friendly spirit moving upon its surface.

He urged her, and she sang another song, and another.