The proud heart was touched at last. That is to say, Bergan's words were the effectual "last drop" in the full cup of the evening's varied emotions,—comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the less inevitably productive of overflow. Miss Thane's lips parted with a kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly suggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to foot. Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree by the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while tears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the moonlight.
Yet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no sound, nor shook with any sob. Grief must be content to exercise over her limited, not absolute dominion.
Bergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out over the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the moon-silvered hills. Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford most safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement, whatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from the evening's events. For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he had no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a heart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.
Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by the soft whirr of wings. A bird, flying as straight over the moonlighted fields as if let loose by an unseen hand for that purpose, alighted in the boughs over the two motionless figures, and shook down upon them a shower of liquid notes,—sweet, clear, and joyous,—a very prophecy of hope.
The song being sung, the bird soon spread its wings and flew back to its nest and its mate. Then Diva rose, and held out her hand to Bergan.
"I accept your offer," said she. "Something tells me that the time will come when I can repay you in degree, if not in kind."
And Bergan, as he took the white, cool hand—empty now, except perhaps of a half-reluctant gratitude, and a moderate measure of good-will—had a singular intuition that some day it would be held out to him with an inestimable gift in it.
V.
INTERCEPTED.
"You are up early," said Diva Thane, when she entered Coralie's room on the morrow, and found her standing by the window, enjoying the fresh, fragrant air, and the innumerable sweet and cheery sounds of the summer morning. "I thought that you would sleep late after your accident,—or what came so near to being one."