s twisted," she commented, with a smile.

"But it isn't, as long as you know what I mean."

"I'll always know," sighed Rosemary, blissfully leaning her head against
his shoulder. "I'll always understand and I'll never fail you. That's
because I love you better than everything else in the world."

"Dear little saint," he murmured; "you're too good for me."

"No, I'm not. On the contrary, I'm not half good enough." Then, after a
pause, she asked the old, old question, first always from the lips of
the woman beloved: "When did you begin to--care?"

"I must have cared when we first began to come here, only I was so blind
I didn't know it."

"When did you--know?"

"Yesterday. I didn't keep it to myself very long."

[Sidenote: When Shall It Be?]

"Dear yesterday!" she breathed, half regretfully.

"Do you want it back?"

She turned reproachful eyes upon him. "Why should I want yesterday when
I have to-day?"

"And to-morrow," he supplemented, "and all the to-morrows to come."

"Together," she said, with a swift realisation of the sweetness
underlying the word. "Yesterday was perfect, like a jewel that we can
put away and keep. When we want to, we can always go back and look at
it."

"No, dear," he returned, soberly; "no one can ever go back to
yesterday." Then, with a swift change of mood, he asked: "When shall we
be married?"

"Whenever you like," she whispered, her eyes downcast and her colour
receding.

"In the Fall, then, when the grapes have been gathered and just before
school begins?"

He could scarcely hear her murmured: "Yes."

"I want to take you to town and let you see things. Theatres, concerts,
operas, parks, shops, art galleries, everything. If the crop is in
early, we should be able to have two weeks. Do you think you could crowd
all the lost opportunities of a lifetime into two weeks?"

"Into a day, with you."

He drew her closer. This sort of thing was very sweet to him, and the
girl's dull personality had bloomed like some pale, delicate flower. He
saw unfathomed depths in her grey eyes, shining now, with the
indescribable light that comes from within. She had been negative and
colourless, but now she was a lovely mystery--a half-blown windflower on
some brown, bare hillside, where Life, in all its fulness, was yet to
come.

[Sidenote: What Will They Say?]

"Did you tell your Grandmother and Aunt Matilda?"

"No. How could I?"

"You'd better not. They'd only make it hard for you