tences, and he could never be hurried at that.

Phyllis knew what was coming; she knew, she knew! Ah! the rapture of it,
the loveliness of it all! the poignant beauty of the still unspoken
words. Phyllis was willing to wait; he had nothing to tell her she
didn't know; but she wanted to hear it said, and remember each word to
dream over afterward.

Slowly they walked, in the mean little street, past dark passages,
leading into tenements; past knots of lounging men; little mothers with
heavy babies struggling in their thin arms; rowdies with vacuous eyes;
and girls flaunting cheap finery.

"May I call you Phyllis?" asked John, breaking the silence suddenly.

[Illustration: MAY I CALL YOU PHYLLIS?]

"Why, yes; if you wish--and if you think you ought, you know."

"Well, then,--Phyllis. Your name has become to me the one name worth
saying in the world. Ever since I met you for the first time, four
months ago, I have been saying it, Phyllis; but I wanted to say it to
you. So with your face: I know every mood of you by the lights and
shadows of it. I can see it in your absence, almost as well as when I am
with you. Your dear, sweet face, Phyllis, and your crown of gold, and
your loyal eyes, I know by heart, as well as your name. Dear Phyllis.
And I know, too, your quick and beautiful mind; its clear, wise
judgment of the true and the false. I know its freedom from selfishness,
and all littleness. I know its purity and its steadfastness I know your
capable hands, Phyllis, and your eager, pitying heart,--for I have seen
them at work day after day, and week after week. I love you, my dearest,
and I must tell you so. I think I have loved you longer than I have
known you, but I know I have loved you as long. Perhaps you can care for
me, and perhaps you can't. Sometimes I have dared to hope you might, but
almost always I have known it was too high a hope. For I am only a poor
poet, with nothing but faith in myself and love for you to offer. I know
you have everything; a beautiful home, and beautiful clothes, and
beautiful jewels, probably, though I haven't seen them. Every wish of
yours is answered almost before you know it is yours. Life's promise to
you is the earth and the fullness thereof; and I offer you only love.
But in the end I shall win, Phyllis, I am perfectly certain of that. I
shall never, never be rich; possibly never even well-to-do; but I love
you, Phyllis; I love you. I want to ask you to wait for me--and be my