The House on the River by Fred M. White

The fog was thinning now, with clear patches in between and the rising moon touched a point here and there in the garden that almost seemed like daylight. It was a lonely garden enough, with a quiet path down the side, and the river creeping along the bottom of the lawn against the piles of the ruined old boat-house. So lonely was it that it might have been miles remote from civilisation.

But Quint was not thinking of that just then. He was thinking of the look on Ennie's face and the expression in her eyes as she turned towards him. He could read something there that he had hardly dared to hope for, and, at any other time, the realisation of what that glance meant would have filled him with sheer delight. But not now--there was much to be done, and many dangers to be circumvented before he could hope to tell Ennie what had been uppermost in his mind for months past.