kine and of chickens and ducks.

"I'm a country girl; there can be no doubt about it," she admitted. "I
do not think a day passes in the city but I miss the cock-crow and the
plaint of barn-yard fowl, and the lowing of cattle and the whimper and
coo of pigeons. And my country eyes grow weary for a glimpse of green,
Clive,--and for wide horizons and the vast flotillas of white clouds
that sail over pastures and salt meadows and bays and oceans. Never
have I been as contented as I am at this moment--here--under the sky
alone with you."

"That also is all I ask in life--the open world, and you."

"Maybe it will happen."

"Maybe."

"With everything--desirable--"

She dropped her eyes and remained very still. For the first time in
her life she had thought of children as her own--and his. And the
thought which had flashed unbidden through her mind left her silent,
and a little bewildered by its sweetness.

He was saying: "You should, by this time, have the means which enable
you to live in the country."

"Yes."

Cecil Reeve had advised her in her investments. The girl's financial
circumstances were modest, but adequate and sound.

"I never told you how much I have," she said. "May I?"

"If you care to."

She told him, explaining every detail very carefully; and he listened,
fascinated by this charming girl's account of how in four years, she
had won from the world the traditional living to which all are
supposed to be entitled.

"You see," she said, "that gives me a modest income. I could live here
very nicely. It has always been my dream.... But of course everything
now depends on where you are."

Surprised and touched he turned toward her: she flushed and smiled,
suddenly realising the naivete of her avowal.

"It's true," she said. "Every day I seem to become more and more
entangled with you. I'm wondering whether I've already crossed the
bounds of friendship, and how far I am outside. I can't seem to
realise any longer that there is no bond between us stronger than
preference.... I was thinking--very unusual and very curious
thoughts--about us both." She drew a deep, unsteady, but smiling,
breath: "Clive, I wish you could marry me."

"You _wish_ it, Athalie?" he asked, profoundly moved.

"Yes."

After a silence she leaned over and rested her cheek against his
shoulder.

"Ah, yes," she said under her breath,--"that is what I begin to wish
for. A home, and _you_.... And--children."

He put his ar