In the twin beds of the master's room on the yacht Idlewild two persons lay wide awake at one-thirty o'clock that morning.

One of them finally said softly and tentatively: "Charlie, are you awake?"

"I am, my dear," came the reply, "and I should like to ask whether it is simply insomnia with you, or whether you are suffering from incipient St. Vitus?"

"Why, I thought I had been keeping so still. It was the same way after I heard that man sing the last time. I couldn't sleep for hours. Isn't he all I said? I'll warrant he is keeping you awake, too."

"I think he is."

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilbur triumphantly. "You do consider him extraordinary, don't you?"

"I do. So much so that I have asked him to go out with us to-morrow night—Oh, it's to-night, isn't it? The Captain says we will leave at nine-thirty, and go as far as Portland."

"Why, I think that is fine," said Mrs. Wilbur, greatly surprised. "Well," she added, after a pause, "you could scarcely give a greater proof of your liking, for I know how careful you are not to commit yourself to being bored by anybody on the yacht. Why didn't he tell me when he left to-night?"

"Because he did not expect to accept. He may do so yet, however. I told him he might decide at the last minute."

"Why did he hesitate? Perhaps because you didn't invite Mr. Kelly."

"Oh, but I did. I told him they might reign supreme in the music-room and work as much as they pleased."

"How delightful! Then why didn't he jump at such a prospect? I suppose because they wouldn't get to New York so quickly."

"No, he has considerable latitude concerning the date for arrival in New York. I'll tell you just what he replied when I asked him. He looked me straight in the eye and he said: 'Thank you, Mr. Wilbur, but it wouldn't do me any good to take such a trip. It's best for me to play safe. I've passed the age when it is permissible to cry for the moon.' He said it slowly, with pauses. He was perfectly willing I should know what he meant, and he saw that I did know."

"Will you kindly tell me"—Mrs. Wilbur sat up in bed and looked across at her husband, bewildered—"what the man was talking about?"

"Can't you possibly think it out?" asked Charles Wilbur quietly.

She frowned into the darkness. "You don't mean—he teases Diana about being goddess of the moon—" She paused.

"You're getting warm, dear, very warm," remarked her husband.

"Why, Charlie, it's impossible!" Then hotly: "He is very wise. Nothing would induce Diana to think of him."

"You wouldn't like it, eh?"

"Why, the idea! It's an impossible idea! I was a little apprehensive at first, when I saw how attractive he was and knew that she had been up here alone with him so long, but I soon saw there was nothing in it, and you should hear what Diana says—"

"Yes, I know young girls say a great many things besides their prayers."

"Well, what did you say to him when he answered you like that?" Mrs. Wilbur's tone was tense.

"I told him that he might think it over, and that I should be glad to have him come."

"Charles Wilbur!" exclaimed his wife severely. She threw off a down cover as if minded to rise.

"Cover yourself up, dear. It's rather cool."

"But that was encouraging him, Charlie."

"I think he perceived it dimly. He looked at me—a long gaze—by George, he's a good-looking boy—and he didn't say a word. Then we shook hands and rejoined the others."

"You have done very wrong," declared Mrs. Wilbur, pulling back the cover, but not lying down.

"What do you want for Diana, Laura? A title?"

"You needn't use that tone. I haven't thought out what I want for Diana."

"I have. I want happiness for her. From the day of my arrival here, I have seen signs. I'm a rich man, but there is one thing I can't buy for my only child, and that is happiness. Diana is a fastidious, carefully bred girl, unspoiled as they make 'em, yet, of course, just as liable to fall for an infatuation as Helen Loring was."

"But she hasn't, she has not, Charlie," interrupted his wife impetuously. "You don't know—"

"It is you who do not know, my dear. You have been so in love with him yourself, and so obsessed with the joy of springing him on Mrs. Coolidge and your other musical friends, that you haven't seen what was going on under your nose any more than if you were a dear little bat."

"Don't you call me a dear little bat! Diana is much more my child than yours. A mother understands her daughter far better than the father can. The idea of your high-handedly taking this matter into your hands without even consulting me!"

"Don't get excited, Laura. I'm not forcing anything. You've had your innings. You didn't even notice what that last song of Barrison's did to Diana to-night."

"Mere emotionality. The same thing that keeps me awake after I hear him sing. That proves nothing. It should even make you pull away from him instead of pulling for him. You're crazy, Charles. He has hypnotized you. The idea that a mere thrilling tenor voice and a fine figure could make you lay down your common sense." Mrs. Wilbur's voice quavered and she felt under her pillow for her handkerchief.

Her husband smiled in the darkness. "Wait, dear. I don't care whether Diana marries a singer or not. I want her to marry a real man. I was on the lookout for infatuation when I saw you so captivated, and I began to inquire into the facts. I found an all-American chap who had had a struggle from childhood and won out over poverty and discouragement by hitching his wagon to a star. He volunteered during the late war and was slightly wounded. He has a clean inheritance, good muscle, and plenty of red blood. I don't care for the blue kind, myself. In short, he is the sort of man I am perfectly willing our daughter should marry, if she wants to."

"I tell you—"

"Yes, I know. You tell me she doesn't want to. Now, I have an idea we shall very soon learn the truth about that. Barrison has shown that he knows how to get what he wants. In this case, I can see how our money will stick in his crop."

"Ho!" from the other bed. A tremendous aspiration.

"Don't blow me out of the room, dearie. I know people will laugh at that idea, but I have had lots of experience in reading character. Barrison will have a great deal to overcome in his own mind. He will not feel free to approach Diana. Perhaps, after all, the affair will amount to nothing. All right, if it does. I'm a passenger, now that I feel sure the boy is a clean specimen."

"Has it come to this!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilbur slowly. "That Diana Wilbur is to be given to a clean specimen!"

"If she so desires," returned the other. "Now I'm going to ask a big thing of you, Laura. It is not to speak to Diana on this subject until she speaks to you. She knows nothing of my invitation to Barrison. We can't handle the matter any further with good effect until the principals declare themselves. You know our girl. You know it is a hall mark of genuineness, a proof of pure metal when she likes a man or a woman. Can't you trust her?"

Mrs. Wilbur was lying down now. Her husband heard a sniff or two stifled in a pillow.

"I wasn't anybody when you married me, Laura," he went on gently. "Weren't we just as happy when we economized on taking a taxi as we are in this yacht? Our boy would be nearly twenty-three now if he had lived. I would have liked my son to look at me with as clear eyes, to have known as little of self-indulgence as Barrison. It is all up to the children, but wouldn't there be points in being mother-in-law to that voice, when you come to think it over?"

No answer, and soon Charles Wilbur completed his infamy by a long and regular breathing that assured his wife that he was sleeping the sleep of the unjust and the outrageous.

LÉonie arose a few hours later to a hard day. Mrs. Wilbur had a headache and did not leave her bed. Diana, with dark shadows under her eyes, came in to make a dutiful visit of condolence, and was well snubbed. She retreated to the deck, where her father was cheerfully watching the life of the cove.

"Good-morning, dear," he said, turning and putting his arm around her. "We have your mother laid out, haven't we?"

"Why, Daddy, what is the matter? The coÖrdination of her nervous system seems entirely thrown out."

He smiled heartlessly. "She didn't sleep much, honey. Neither did you," regarding her closely.

"No, Daddy," she replied, rather breathlessly. "I seem to be more reposeful when the yacht is in motion."

"'Rocked in the cradle of the deep,' eh? Want to go ashore this morning?"

"No, I think not. Mrs. Lowell is coming out for tea this afternoon, a little good-bye visit."

"All right, then. What do you say to some cribbage?"

"Fine, if we cannot be of any assistance to Mamma. Are you sure?"

"Yes, my love. She has been drinking heavily of 'the wine of astonishment' and must sleep it off. If there is any humble pie on board, you might have LÉonie take her some for luncheon."

"What are you talking about, Daddy? Poor Mamma!"

"Yes, she is absolutely one of the finest. I thought so when she was eighteen, and cute, with a little turn-up nose and dimples something like that Veronica girl, and I think so now; but the best of women must sometimes lie by until they get a new perspective."

"Daddy, I don't understand you. You and Mamma have—have differed about something, I fear."

"Well, it—it might be described that way. Morris,"—turning toward his valet who was near,—"the cribbage-board, please."

Diana strove valiantly not to have a miserable day. She played cribbage with her father until luncheon was served on deck. Then she gave orders for her tea, and LÉonie came to remind her of her promise that she might show Bill Lindsay over the yacht. He arrived about the same time as Mrs. Lowell, and LÉonie, frightened to death of her mistress's strange mood, besought Diana to remain with her mother while she should fulfill the promise to her island pal, and bid him a long and racking farewell.

So Diana left Mrs. Lowell with her father while she ventured to her mother's bedside and sat down, silently. A handkerchief, redolent of cologne, covered the sufferer's eyes.

"Who is that?" came faintly from the blinded one.

"It is I, Mamma," said Diana meekly. "Are you feeling a little better?"

"Diana,"—the voice was still faint but stern,—"have I been a good mother to you?"

"Mamma, dear, there never was a better. How can you ask?"

"Because no one else thinks so."

Diana threw herself on her knees beside the bed and took the hand that was outside the rosy silk coverlet. "Dearest, I am not feeling very well to-day and you will destroy my poise if you say such things. My heart feels sore for some reason, so do not give it any blows. You know how Daddy and I think there is nobody in the world like you. Daddy was talking about it this morning and telling me how cute and pretty you were when he first knew you,"—Diana's voice began to quaver,—"told me about your dimples and everything, and how you were just as attractive to him now as you had been then, and"—Diana succumbed and tears fell on the hand she held—"and if I am ever married, Mamma,—I do so hope that in twenty-five years afterward—he—he will feel that way about me."

One eye emerged from the cologne bandage and viewed the girl's lovely, bowed head.

"Now, don't cry, Diana," firmly. "Why in the world should you cry? You have a wonderful life opening before you. You've known nothing yet but school, and I want you to spend a little time thinking of the possibilities of the future. With your looks and the money at your command, there is no social experience among the highest-placed and most cultivated people abroad and at home that you may not enjoy. You've heard the saying: 'Of the unspoken word you are master, the spoken word is master of you.' It is the same with actions. You are deliberate by nature, and exquisite by breeding. Never commit yourself to anything impulsively. No mother would be a good mother who did not say as much as this to you."

Diana experienced a sudden stricture of the heart that dried her eyes and held her motionless over the hand she held. She knew all at once the cause of her parents' difference. She had never in her life been able to conceal anything from her father. She flushed deeply. Whatever he had said to her mother must have been in Philip's favor. With thoughts, humble, frightened, resentful, racing through her mind, she did not know how long she had been kneeling there when LÉonie came in with soft step, and she looked up to see her mother's eye again eclipsed. She remembered Mrs. Lowell.

"LÉonie is here now and I must go, dearest. Mrs. Lowell has come out for some tea. Shall LÉonie bring you some?"

"No. I want nothing. I am feeling better, Diana. Don't distress yourself about me."

The girl kissed the forehead above the bandage and passing LÉonie saw that her eyes, too, were red.

"I wonder if this day will ever be over", she thought dismally.

She found her father and Mrs. Lowell having a visit, charming to each of them, and tea was served at once.

While they were eating and drinking, the island steamer came into the cove and up to its landing.

"I suppose our delightful musician friends are leaving on that boat," said Mrs. Lowell. "Shan't we stand at the rail, and wave a good-bye?"

"No, I wouldn't," returned Diana hastily. "Everybody except the right ones will take the greeting to themselves, and—" Indeed, she would not wave to Philip after his cruelty in singing that song! And obeying it so literally as not to manage one word of farewell to her alone!

"Little snob, eh, Mrs. Lowell?" said her father.

The steamer was turning around to leave.

"He is going!" cried Diana's heart. The whole day to have passed with no sign from him! Cruel! Cruel! "You know, Daddy, Mrs. Lowell and I must see something of each other the coming winter if only for Bert's sake. He is related to us."

The passenger boat was passing near now. The yacht felt its waves. Diana turned her eyes toward it in spite of herself. Some people were waving handkerchiefs toward the handsome yacht, and the Captain whistled three times. The yacht replied, and Charles Wilbur stood up and saluted. Diana's heart beat hard and painfully. She looked back at the tea-table.

"Tell us, Daddy, just what relation Mr. Herbert Loring was to you."

"Why, it was this way. My grandmother and his mother were—"

Diana never knew what they were, for the island steamer was moving toward the mouth of the cove. Handkerchiefs were waving from the stern. It receded. It rounded the rocks at the farthest point, and disappeared.

"That is very interesting, indeed," said Mrs. Lowell. "I shall tell Bert. He will be glad and proud of the connection. I have a fine boy there, Mr. Wilbur. I am hoping my husband won't mind my taking such a responsibility." She rose to go.

"You have a good ally in Luther Wrenn," remarked Mr. Wilbur, arranging her wrap.

"Yes, and in you, I hope?"

"Certainly. At your service. A big responsibility awaits that youngster. Let us hope he will grow up to be as clean-cut and simply honest as young Barrison."

"You do like him, don't you?" said Mrs. Lowell with her direct look.

"Very much, so far. I don't know how he may carry sail in the prosperity before him, but so far he seems to be all to the good."

The small boat was summoned for the guest. Bill Lindsay had gone off in the dory that brought him. Diana went alone with her friend to the head of the awninged stairway.

Mrs. Lowell saw the marks of distress in the young face, and she held the girl's hand for a minute. "God bless you," she said, and kissed her lovingly. "Trust Him, my dear," she added meaningly. "He is taking care of you. Claim it and know it. Good-bye."

Diana watched the boat glide toward the shore. "This awful day is nearly over," she thought. "I feel as if my good angel was going away in that boat."

Mrs. Wilbur did not arise for dinner. Diana and her father ate it alone in state. Keen to do her duty and grateful to him for his attitude toward the man whom she must henceforth forget, she had dressed herself in her prettiest gown. At twenty, pensive eyes with shadows about them are not unbecoming, and her father looked across at her admiringly.

"The Count de No-Account or some other titles, should be here to-night, my dear. The moon-goddess is too lovely to beam upon no one more thrilling than her humdrum old daddy."

"As if any one could come up to him," rejoined Diana affectionately. "You remind me of the way Mamma was talking this afternoon, of all the possibilities money opens to a girl, abroad and at home. She did not stop to think what a standard she had set up by marrying you."

Her father nodded slowly, regarding her with a curious smile. "Indeed. So little Mamma was able to sit up with a comforter around her and show you the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, was she? Well, well. Foxy little Mamma."

Diana blushed violently and busied herself with her salad. "I am sorry we have to sleep in Portland harbor to-night. It won't be quiet for Mamma."

There were no more personalities during the meal. The girl and her father went on deck and watched the sunset together, after which Mr. Wilbur said he would go down and see his wife, and Diana was left alone. She had a deeply cushioned seat moved near the yacht's rail in the stern, and leaned back to watch the cove darken and the lights flash out on the other boats. Her thoughts ran over a rÉsumÉ of the summer. How long the weeks stretched out in retrospect! How they had fled in passing! Presently, the moon arose over the hill-road. She thought of last evening when their group had welcomed it. Philip had said that night on the rocks that he should not forget that she was as distant from him as that planet, and he had kept his word. Not to see his merry eyes again. Not to see the sensitiveness of his smile when he looked at her. Not to hear him call her a goddess, not to hear him sing except as others heard him.

She had heard the song all day, and her heart now felt sick and empty as she sat there, that golden moon beaming down upon her alone, and striking to silver the ripples across the cove. She leaned among her cushions and turned her face aside. Her eyes began to smart, and she closed them. The wind as usual had gone down with the sun, and the awning fringes were but faintly stirred.

Suddenly she felt that the boat was moving. So smooth and silent its motion, that, when she looked up, the yacht was halfway out of the cove. She leaned forward.

"Oh, good-bye," she murmured, and she held out her hands toward the wooded bank. "Good-bye. Oh, good-bye, Isola Bella. I shall always love you, and every blade of grass, and every daisy, and every swallow."

Tears veiled the shadowy woods. She dashed them away, and resisted the sob that rose in her throat. The yacht moved swiftly out into the waves of the summer sea. It was now only the end of the wooded bluff which she could perceive in the moonlight. She leaned back again, and, covering her eyes, relaxed, holding her quivering lip between her teeth.

A neighboring movement made her look up, expecting her father.

Philip Barrison stood there.

She caught her breath. "It is impossible!" she gasped.

"Yes, it is." He took her outstretched hands and sank down beside her. "It is a midsummer night's dream; but I couldn't—I tried, Diana, but I couldn't resist. Your father asked me—said I might come—even at the last minute." At each pause Philip kissed the hands he was holding. "Are you—that is the one vital question—are you glad I came, my goddess?"

The look she gave him in the moonlight made him take her quickly in his arms, and she sank into them with the certainty of the bird that finds its nest.

"I don't know how I dared this, Diana,—dared the future, I mean. How can I be the right one to win the prize of the whole world?"

"Because you are the only man in the whole world for me, and you felt it, and I felt it. Oh, Philip, I won't be so selfish as in the way I have talked to you. I am never going to grudge that others should admire you."

"No, you never will," he answered. "The sparkle of what others may say is like the phosphorescence down there in the unlighted places. The radiance and glow filling my whole being now is an eternal thing. I can't believe it yet, it will take me a long time to believe it, but, oh, my beautiful one, I wish, I do wish you were a poor girl!"

She lifted her head from his breast, looking at him with glorified eyes. "I should be," she said slowly, "if you did not love me—Philomel."

They kissed, and the moon shone down on the beaten foam of the snowy wake in a long, ineffable silence.

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