ghts and miserable days. All their
troubles were now over. They were to trust each other through
everything. They were to help each other to grow nobler and better,
and more worthy of this wonderful love; which both alike felt to be
more wonderful, more true, more sweet, than any other love ever
bestowed upon mortal man and woman.

It was a little let-down to this exalted condition that it had to come
within the social bonds of their common every-day lives. Harry said he
"must speak to Mr. Van Hoosen," and Yanna answered, "Yes, Harry, and
at once. I cannot be perfectly happy until my father knows how happy I
am."

The first ecstasy of their condition had demanded motion; but when
Harry spoke of the necessary formalities of their engagement, they sat
down.

"Your father has a right to ask me some questions, dear Yanna, which I
think I can answer to his satisfaction. There are only two things I
fear." She looked at him with an assuring smile, and he went on,
"First, I cannot marry for a year at any rate, perhaps longer."

"Father will not count that against you. Nor do I. He will miss me
every hour of his life, when I leave him. He will be thankful to put
off the separation--and he has done so much for me, and we have been
so much to each other, that I think I ought to give him a little more
of my life."

Harry knit his brows. It already hurt him to think of Yanna giving
thought and love to others, when he wanted every thought for himself.
He drew her close to him, and with kisses and tender words vowed,
"though it was dreadfully selfish, he should be wretched until he had
taken her absolutely away from every other tie." Perhaps she felt a
moment's pleasure in this singleness of her lover's desire, but it was
only momentary.

"That is wrong, Harry," she answered. "It is a poor heart that has
room for only one love. My love for father can never wrong you. He is
the first memory I have. Before I was three years old, I remember him,
carrying me in his arms every night until I fell asleep. When I was a
school-girl he helped me with my lessons. He taught me how to skate,
and to drive, and to row. We were always together. My mother did not
care much for books and embroidery and drawing, but father watched my
stitches and my pencil, and wondered all the time at his little girl's
cleverness. I knew he made too much of his little girl's cleverness;
but then, we love people who make much of us in any way. And it is
past be