Arthur Stringer

“ She, too, Macraven saw, looked ethereal and unearthly and sylphlike in the pale glow of that spiritualizing moonlight.
“Why shouldn't I?” he asked, gazing at the unconscious and happy couple on the fallen buttonwood tree.
“Oh, don't!” pleaded Anne, and something in the solemnity of her voice overawed him.
“But why not?” he persisted, hesitating.
“Because—can't you see,” she murmured, without looking at him, “it's—it's love?” ”

“ She was gazing in silence out at the moonlight and the rippling water. One hand supported her chin, the other rested on the shoulder of the youth at her side. Macraven could see her profile clear cut against the light, and through that lucid, yet muffled luminosity, strangely enough, both her face and that of the boy at her side seemed suddenly statuesque, as impersonal and beautiful as Praxitelian marble. ”

“ It was too hot for walking, and reading seemed out of the question. When Anne went indoors to write letters, he idled about the garden, and then returned and paced the veranda once more, abstracted and preoccupied.
The dinner hour came and went without the return of Sybil. Anne went to the orchard gate, at Macraven's suggestion, for one last look. But there was no one in sight, so they sat down and ate alone. Evening came on, warm and soft and gray. A silvery-brown dusk crept over the field. The twilight deepened, and at last, with the coming of darkness, Macraven sent for Anne. ”