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Little Miss Blythe had not yet asked Mr. Blagdon to drive her home. Though she had made up her mind to do so, it would only be at the last possible moment of the twelfth hour. It was now that eleventh hour in which heroines are rescued by bold lovers. But Mister Masters was no bolder than a mouse. And the moon sailed higher and higher in the heavens.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said little Miss Blythe.

“Wonderful!”

“Just smell it!”

“Umm.”

Her sad, rather frightened eyes wandered over to the noisy group of which Mr. Bob Blagdon was the grave and silent centre. He knew that little Miss Blythe would keep her promise. He believed in his heart that her decision would be favorable to him; but he was watching her where she sat with Masters and knew that his belief in what she would decide was not strong enough to make him altogether happy.

“And he was old enough to be her father!” repeated the gentleman in the Scotch deer-stalker who had been gossiping. Mr. Blagdon smiled, but the words hurt–“old enough to be her father.” “My God,” he thought, “I am old enough–just!” But then he comforted himself with “Why not? It’s how old a man feels, not how old he is.”

Then his eyes caught little Miss Blythe’s, but she turned hers instantly away.

“This will be the end of the season,” she said.

Mister Masters assented. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked.

“Do you see old Mr. Black over there?” she said. “He’s pretending not to watch us, but he’s watching us like a lynx…. Did you ever start a piece of news?”

“Never,” said Mister Masters.

“It would be rather fun,” said little Miss Blythe. “For instance, if we held hands for a moment Mr. Black would see it, and five minutes later everybody would know about it.”

Mister Masters screwed his courage up to the sticking point, and took her hand in his. Both looked toward Mr. Black as if inviting him to notice them. Mr. Black was seen almost instantly to whisper to the nearest gentleman.

“There,” said little Miss Blythe, and was for withdrawing her hand. But Masters’s fingers tightened upon it, and she could feel the pulses beating in their tips. She knew that people were looking, but she felt brazen, unabashed, and happy. Mister Masters’s grip tightened; it said: “My master has a dozen hearts, and they are all beating–for you.” To return that pressure was not an act of little Miss Blythe’s will. She could not help herself. Her hand said to Masters: “With the heart–with the soul.” Then she was frightened and ashamed, and had a rush of color to the face.

“Let go,” she whispered.

But Masters leaned toward her, and though he was trembling with fear and awe and wonder, he found a certain courage and his voice was wonderfully gentle and tender, and he smiled and he whispered: “Boo!”

Only then did he set her hand free. For one reason there was no need now of so slight a bondage; for another, Mr. Bob Blagdon was approaching them, a little pale but smiling. He held out his hand to little Miss Blythe, and she took it.

“Phyllis,” said he, “I know your face so well that there is no need for me to ask, and for you–to deny.” He smiled upon her gently, though it cost him an effort. “I wanted her for myself,” he turned to Masters with charming frankness, “but even an old man’s selfish desires are not proof against the eloquence of youth, and I find a certain happiness in saying from the bottom of my heart–bless you, my children….”

The two young people stood before him with bowed heads.

“I am going to send you the silver and glass from the table,” said he, “for a wedding present to remind you of my picnic….” He looked upward at the moon. “If I could,” said he, “I would give you that.”

Then the three stood in silence and looked upward at the moon.