less you was with me."

Letty clung to him passionately. "Oh, David," she cried, with a break in
her voice, "I don't want any rings. I want just you."

David put out one hand and softly touched the little blue kerchief about
her head. "Anyway," he said, "we won't have any more secrets from one
another, will we?"

Letty gave a little start, and she caught her breath before answering:--

"No, we won't--not unless they're nice ones!"

A LAST ASSEMBLING

This happened in what Dilly Joyce, in deference to a form of speech, was
accustomed to call her young days; though really her spirit seemed to
renew itself with every step, and her body was to the last a willing
instrument. She lived in a happy completeness which allowed her to carry
on the joys of youth into the maturity of years. But things did happen
to her from twenty to thirty-five which could never happen again. When
Dilly was a girl, she fell in love, and was very heartily and honestly
loved back again. She had been born into such willing harmony with
natural laws, that this in itself seemed to belong to her life. It
partook rather of the faithfulness of the seasons than of human tragedy
or strenuous overthrow. Even so early she felt great delight in natural
things; and when her heart turned to Jethro Moore, she had no doubt
whatever of the straightness of its path. She trusted all the primal
instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was thirsty; here was
water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than she, the son of a
minister in a neighboring town. His father had marked out his plan of
life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church on hot summer
Sundays, when "fourthly" and "sixthly" lulled him into a pleasing coma,
and when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chase's shot silk failed to awaken his
deep eyes to their accustomed delight in fabric and color. To him, the
church was a concrete and very dull institution: to his father, it was a
city set on a hill, whence a shining path led direct to God's New
Jerusalem. Therefore it was easy enough for the boy to say he preferred
business, and that he wanted uncle Silas to take him into his upholstery
shop; and he never, so long as he lived, understood his father's tragic
silence over the choice. He had broken the succession in a line of
priests; but it seemed to him that he had simply told what he wanted to
do for a living. So he went away to the city, and news came flying back
of his wonderful fi