That had somehow made the evening seem strange, and freighted with consequences; and besides the white light of the moon, full of mystic influence, there was something subtler and more magnetic, which could sway more than the tides, even the passions of the human heart, present, and they both felt it.
Neither had said much, and they had been sitting there nearly two hours, when Richard had arisen, and moved curiously, rather as if he was drawn than walked of his own volition, over to the sofa.

He sank down upon it with a little cough.

Sylvia moved away a little with an involuntary motion, which was pure maidenliness.
"It's getting late," remarked Richard, trying to make his voice careless, but it fell in spite of him into deep cadences.
"It ain't very late, I guess," Sylvia had returned, tremblingly.
"I ought to be going home." Then there was silence for a while.

Sylvia glanced sidewise, timidly and adoringly, at Richard's smoothly shaven face, pale as marble in the moonlight, and waited, her heart throbbing.
[Illustration: "Sylvia glanced timidly at Richard's smoothly-shaven face"] "I've been coming here a good many years," Richard observed finally, and his own voice had a solemn tremor.
Sylvia made an almost inarticulate assent.
"I've been thinking lately," said Richard; then he paused.

They could hear the great clock out in the kitchen tick.