like a sheet of bright and waveless water in the moonlight. The panes of the Gothic window in the church glittered like a succession of small shining mirrors; and the vane on the spire was like a light placed there. The scattered tombstones lay white around; and nothing on that side the building told of the depth of shadow which was behind. The birds had long since been asleep; and not a breath of wind stirred the drooping leaves. There was an uncertain beauty in the distance, which gave an additional charm to the scene; the light, silvery and tremulous, was more indistinct than that of day. Familiar objects took new shapes, and every outline was softened down with a varying and undulating grace.
But Walter Maynard's eyes were fixed upon one spot. A light was in the window of a turret just caught among the old oaks that surrounded Mrs. Churchill's house. Once or twice a shadow flitted past, and the light was obscured. In the silence you might have heard the youthful watcher's heart beating. It was Ethel Churchill's window. At length
