After dinner, when the moon rose—a crystal-white crescent—they all left the drawing-room for the small hall and portico. Kate, a white shawl on her shoulders, sat on the stone step, and sang, softly, "The Young May Moon;" Mr. Stanford leaned lightly against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigar, and looking up at the blue, far-off sky, his handsome face pale and still.
"Sing 'When the Swallows Homeward Fly,' Kate," her father said.
She sang the song, softly and a little sadly, with some dim foreshadowing of trouble weighing at her heart. They lingered there until the clock struck ten—Kate's songs and the moonlight charming the hours away. When they went into the house, and took their night-lamps, Stanford bade them good-bye.
"I shall probably be off before any of you open your eyes on this mortal life to-morrow morning," he said, "and so had better say good-bye now."
"You leave by the eight A. M. train, then," said the Captain. "It seems to me everybody is running off just when they ought to stay at home."
Stanford laughed, and shook hands with Grace and Kate—with one as warmly as with the other—and was gone. Kate's face looked pale and sad, as she went slowly upstairs with that dim foreshadowing still at her heart.
Breakfast was awaiting the traveller next morning at half-past seven, when he ran down stairs, ready for his journey. More than breakfast was waiting. Kate stood by the window, looking out drearily at the matinal sunlight.
"Up so early, Kate?" her lover said, with an expression of rapture. "Why did you take the trouble?"
"It was no trouble," Kate said, slowly, feeling cold and strange.
He sat down to table, but only drank a cup of coffee. As he arose, Captain Danton and Grace came in.