cleared the divide of the Contra Costa hills and began dropping
down the long grade that led past Redwood Peak to Fruitvale. Beneath
them stretched the flatlands to the bay, checkerboarded into fields and
broken by the towns of Elmhurst, San Leandro, and Haywards. The smoke of
Oakland filled the western sky with haze and murk, while beyond, across
the bay, they could see the first winking lights of San Francisco.

Darkness was on them, and Billy had become curiously silent. For half
an hour he had given no recognition of her existence save once, when
the chill evening wind caused him to tuck the robe tightly about her
and himself. Half a dozen times Saxon found herself on the verge of the
remark, "What's on your mind?" but each time let it remain unuttered.
She sat very close to him. The warmth of their bodies intermingled, and
she was aware of a great restfulness and content.

"Say, Saxon," he began abruptly. "It's no use my holdin' it in any
longer. It's ben in my mouth all day, ever since lunch. What's the
matter with you an' me gettin' married?"

She knew, very quietly and very gladly, that he meant it. Instinctively
she was impelled to hold off, to make him woo her, to make herself more
desirably valuable ere she yielded. Further, her woman's sensitiveness
and pride were offended. She had never dreamed of so forthright and bald
a proposal from the man to whom she would give herself. The simplicity
and directness of Billy's proposal constituted almost a hurt. On the
other hand she wanted him so much--how much she had not realized until
now, when he had so unexpectedly made himself accessible.

"Well you gotta say something, Saxon. Hand it to me, good or bad; but
anyway hand it to me. An' just take into consideration that I love you.
Why, I love you like the very devil, Saxon. I must, because I'm askin'
you to marry me, an' I never asked any girl that before."

Another silence fell, and Saxon found herself dwelling on the warmth,
tingling now, under the lap-robe. When she realized whither her thoughts
led, she blushed guiltily in the darkness.

"How old are you, Billy?" she questioned, with a suddenness and
irrelevance as disconcerting as his first words had been.

"Twenty-two," he answered.

"I am twenty-four."

"As if I didn't know. When you left the orphan asylum and how old you
were, how long you worked in the jute mills, the cannery, the paper-box
factory, the laundry--maybe you think I can't do additi