"You were very cold to me that night at Ashville," he ventured to say.

"I was trying you. I wasn't quite sure, you see, which side of the moon I was looking at; and if after all it was only the same old side, I didn't want to let myself be dazzled by it, as I couldn't help being at first. Oh, but don't misunderstand me! It wasn't the reflected light--the light of a high position--that had dazzled me. That never mattered. It was a different light--a light that never shone on land or sea, but shines just once, they say, in every woman's life. That means what I said before: that I was in love with you on the boat, even when I laughed at your talk of love. I felt more like crying than laughing, though, because the sort of love you gave me in return for mine wasn't worth my having. I was too good for it."

"Heaven knows you were," Val admitted, humbly.

"But I'm not too good--no, not good enough, for what you give me now; and that's why I'm so frightfully happy, and delighted that Sidney's motor jumped over conventionalities instead of my having to take the leap myself. Instead, I just leaped with the car, and you leaped, too--and everything is going to be Heavenly for all the rest of our lives."

"I don't quite see how, if you're not tired of Cremer," said Loveland.

"Don't be jealous of Sidney any more; I liked making you a little jealous of him at first--after I saw how you felt. It was fun for me--and I thought it was good for you. But now it's different. I'm sure--_sure_--about the other side of the moon, and I want you to be as happy as I am. Oh, don't speak yet! I must go on a little further. You know, I told you I had a telegram this morning?"

"Yes--yes."

"Well, you thought it was from Sidney Cremer, and I didn't contradict.

Lots of things you've thought lately I let you go on thinking, without contradicting. The telegram was from little f.a.n.n.y Milton--about you."

"About me?"

"She knew from a journalist who is a friend of hers that you'd come to this part of the country with a theatrical troupe, and they'd found out that the actors were playing pieces of Sidney Cremer's at Ashville. They talked it over together--f.a.n.n.y and this Mr. Kidd. He wanted to know for his paper's sake where you'd disappeared to when the company broke up.

Last evening he suggested that she should telegraph to me. They both thought I might have heard about you. So that's why I felt that you wouldn't be stopping on as my chauffeur very long."

"Did Miss Milton say in the telegram that New York had discovered its mistake about me?"

"No, she didn't say that, though it was a long telegram. I expect she thought I would have seen the newspapers. Well, I haven't; but I can put two and two together quite nicely, and I was sure that you'd come into your own again with the great American public--perhaps partly through f.a.n.n.y Milton's Mr. Kidd. I'd be willing to wager all the profits of Sidney Cremer's next play or novel--if I had them--that you can now go back, if you like, and get without any difficulty the heiress you came across the water for."

"I'm sick of the very word heiress!" protested Loveland, with complete sincerity.

"That's the new You. And what a very new You it is, when one comes to think of it! Only a few weeks old. But it's the only real one. The other was a sh.e.l.l which has broken."

"You broke it," said Val.

"I cracked it a little, maybe, on the boat; but it took a big hammer to smash it, and now I've swept all the fragments away. There's just the real you and the real me in the world--with the wonderful light from the other side of the moon shining on us two--and Sidney Cremer."

"Oh, Sidney Cremer!" cried Loveland. "He still stands between us."

"No, he doesn't. If you love me you'll have to love Sidney, too, because Sidney Cremer and I are one, and his money is mine; because I earn it, and _don't_ I enjoy it, too! Haven't I enjoyed it for three whole years, since all of a sudden from being a poor girl, dependent on Aunt Barbara, I waked up to find myself a rich one--oh, not rich in your meaning of the word, not rich enough to line castle walls with gold and diamonds, but rich enough to do nice little things for an old Kentucky farm-house, and perhaps even to help restore ancient British strongholds if the lord of them and of my heart will give me so much happiness.

"You--you are Sidney Cremer?" Loveland could only stammer the words stupidly.

"Yes. Are you so surprised that I'm clever enough to make a success with my brain and my pen? I often wondered when you'd begin to suspect--but you never did. And I was wondering, too, whether Sidney Cremer would have to propose to you in the end. It's been great fun keeping my secret from the world, never letting anyone know the real truth except Auntie and the Ashville cousins--though f.a.n.n.y Milton and lots of other acquaintances thought I was a _friend_ of Sidney Cremer's--perhaps even a poor relation of his. But the most fun of all has been keeping the secret from you till the time was ripe to tell. Do you remember saying the other day, '_Sidney Cremer is everything?_' I told you I'd remind you of that some time, and ask if you could say it again. Can you now?"

"Sidney Cremer is everything," repeated Loveland. Whereupon Lesley gave one of her little soft, cooing sighs, and let him take her into his arms.

They were both very muddy and mossy, and rather bruised and shaken, if they had not been too deeply absorbed in the feelings of their hearts to think of the feelings of their bodies. And perhaps a boggy field with no shelter save a motor-car lying rakishly on one side, was a queer place for an engagement between a young English Marquis and a celebrated American novelist-playwright. But for Lesley and Loveland it was perfect. Sidney Cremer's vivid fancy had never created a more enchanting scene for the love-making of hero and heroine. And though, if there had been an audience, it would have seen the stage lit up only with pale rays of wintry sunshine, for the girl and the man it was illumined with ineffable light from the other side of the moon.

THE END