"What a moon!" he added softly.

"Great guns, what a moon!" Beyond, through the dark of the trees, softly silvered by the moon above the ridge, glimmered the river, winding along by peaceful forest and meadows edged with grass and mint.

There was moon-bright dew upon the clover and high upon the ridge a tree showed dark and full against the moon in lonely silhouette.

It was an enchanted wood of moonlit depth and noisy quiet, of shrilling crickets, the plaintive cries of tree frogs, the drowsy crackle of the camp fire, or the lap of water by the shore, with sometimes the lonely hoot of an owl.
"A while back," mused Diane innocently, "there was a shooting star above the ridge--" "Yes ?" said Philip puffing comfortably at his pipe.
"I meant to call your attention to it but 'Hey!' and 'Look!' were dreadfully abrupt." "There is always--'Philip!'" insinuated that young man.

Diane bit her lip and relapsed into silence.
"You didn't tell me," said Philip presently, "whether or not you found any more flowers this morning." "Only heaps of wild blackberry," Diane replied briefly.