"There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;
The wind is intermitting, dry and light."
Lilian sighs gently as they move rapidly through the still air,—a sigh not altogether born of the night's sweetness, but rather tinged with melancholy. The day has been a failure, and though through all its windings she has been possessed by the spirit of gayety, now in the subdued silence of the night the reaction setting in reduces her to the very verge of tears.
Cyril, too, is very quiet, but his thoughts are filled with joy. Lifting his gaze to the eternal vault above him, he seems to see in the gentle stars the eyes of his beloved smiling back at him. A dreamy happiness, an exquisite feeling of thankfulness, absorb him, making him selfishly blind to the sadness of his little companion.
"How silent you are!" Lilian says, at length, unable to endure her tormenting reverie any longer.
"Am I?" smiling. "I was thinking of some lines I read yesterday: the night is so lovely it recalls them. Of course they are as well known to you as to me; but hear them:
"How beautiful is the night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor streak, nor stain,