him her lips. Her arms were
pinioned. Man and woman breathed fast.

"Martie--my wonderful--my beautiful--girl! I never lived until now!" he
said after a silence.

"But, John--John--" He had taken her off her guard; she was stammering
like a school-girl. "Please, dear, you mustn't--not now. I want to talk
to you--I must. Won't you wait until we have had a talk--please--you're
frightening me!"

His hold was instantly loosed.

"My dearest child, I wouldn't frighten you for anything in the world.
Let us have the talk--here, climb up here! It was only--realizing--what
I've been dreaming about all these months! I'm flesh and blood, you
know, dear. I shall not feel myself alive--you know that!--until you
are in my arms, my own--my wife."

She had seated herself on the top of the pile; now he sat on the ledge
that was a few inches lower, and laid his arms across her knees, so
that his hands were clasped in both her own. Her senses were swimming,
her heart itself seemed turned to liquid fire, and ran trembling
through her body.

"My wife!" John said, eager eyes fairly devouring her. "My glorious
wife, the loveliest woman in the world! Do you know what it means,
Martie? Do you know what it means, after what we both have known?"

The sight of his wistful, daring smile in the starlight, the touch of
his big, eager hands, and the sound of the odd, haunting voice turned
the words to magic. She tightened her fingers on his.

"I bought the Connecticut house on the river," he said presently. "It
belonged to a carpenter, a fine fellow; but the railroad doesn't go
there, and he and his wife wanted to go to a bigger place. Silver and I
went up and saw it, but I didn't want to do anything until you came.
But there are rocks, you know--" Hearing something between a laugh and
a sigh, he stopped short. "Rocks," he repeated, "you know all those
places are rocky!"

"I know, dearest boy!"

The term overwhelmed him. She heard him try to go on; he choked,
glanced at her smilingly, and shook his head. A second later he laid
his face against her hands, and she felt that it was wet.

The clock in the Town Hall struck nine--struck ten, and still they sat
on, sometimes talking, sometimes staring up at the steadily beating
stars. Quiet fell upon Monroe, lights moved in the little houses and
went out. There was a little stir when the crowd poured out from the
moving pictures: voices, shouts, laughter, then silence again.

Suddenly Martie