“Look! isn't she lovely, John?”
“Isn't who lovely?” asked the doctor, looking back at the house in some surprise.
“The gentle Shepherdess of Night,” Mary answered, her eyes on the moon just rising over the distant treetops.
“She's getting ready to ‘lead her flocks through the fields of blue.’”
“How very poetical we are.”
“Only an echo from a little song I used to sing when I was a little girl.”
“Get up, my steeds,” urged the doctor, “we must be getting back”; and they sped swiftly homeward through the soft summer night.
CHAPTER VIII.
Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling.
“Hello.”