THE thin white silk thread of a moon was hanging in the blue twilight over the darkened western slope of the island, and almost within the horns of its crescent a planet was burning without the least tremulous motion. The lights of the town were glimmering over the waters, and the strange, wildly musical cries of the bullock-drivers were borne faintly out to the steamer, mingling with the sound of the bell of St. Mary's on the Mount.
The vessel had just begun to move away from its anchorage, and Daireen Gerald was standing on the deck far astern leaning over the bulwarks looking back upon the island slope whose bright green had changed to twilight purple. Not of the enjoyment of the day she had spent up among the vines was the girl thinking; her memory fled back to the past days spent beneath the shadow of a slope that was always purple, with a robe of heather clinging to it from base to summit.
“I hope you don't regret having taken my advice about going on shore, Miss Gerald,” said Mr. Harwood, who had come beside her.
“Oh, no,” she said; “it was all so lovely—so unlike what I ever saw or imagined.”
“It has always seemed lovely to me,” he said, “but to-day it was very lovely. I had got some pleasant recollections of the island before, but now the memories I shall retain will be the happiest of my life.”
“Was to-day really so much pleasanter?” asked the girl quickly. “Then I am indeed fortunate in my first visit. But you were not at any part of the island that you had not seen before,” she added, after a moment's pause.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I saw all to-day under a new aspect.”
“You had not visited it in September? Ah, I recollect now having heard that this was the best month for Madeira. You see I am fortunate.”
“Yes, you are—fortunate,” he said slowly. “You are fortunate; you are a child; I am—a man.”