In a moment when we both were silent, renewing our amazement at the stars, there burst upon the night a volume of song that I instantly identified.
"She sleeps, my lady sleeps!" sang the clear tenor of Arthur Updyke.

"My lady sleeps--she sleeps!" sang three other voices in well-blended corroboration; after which the four discoursed upon this interesting theme.
We were down from the stars at once, but I saw nothing to laugh at, and said as much.
"We might take them out some sandwiches and things to drink," persisted my Little Miss.
But the starlight had shown me a gleam in her eyes that was too outrageously Peavey.
"We will _not_" I chanted firmly to the music's mellowed accompaniment.
"I am free to say now that the thing must be stopped, but you shall do it less brutally--to-morrow or next day." "Oh, well, if you--" She nestled again.

So soon had this habit seemed to fasten upon her adaptable nature.
"It's wonderful what one arm can do," she said; and in the darkness she felt for the closing hand of it to draw it yet more firmly about her.
"It has the spirit of all the arms in the world, Little Miss--oh, my Little Miss--my dream woman come true!" She nestled again, with a sigh of old days ended.
"You _can't_ get any closer," I admonished.
"_Here!_" she whispered insistingly, so that I felt the breath of it..