Lances of moonlight pierced through the branches and their slow feet made no sound upon the thick moss.

Here and there pale foxglove spires held up their late blossoms like flower spirits in the dim light.
Donal thought--the first night she came to him softly through the ferns--that her coming was like that of some fair thing not of earth--a vision out of some old legend or ancient poem of faery.

But he marched towards her, soldierly--like a young Lohengrin whose silver mail had changed to khaki.

There was no longer war in the world--there never had been.
"I brought it with me," he said and took her close in his arms.

For a few minutes the wood seemed more still than before.
"Do you hear my heart beat ?" he said at last.
"I feel it.