"I think we had best talk of something else," she said, uneasily. "In the morning we must begin our work, bright and early. I suppose there will be no beach bathing here, and we can commence before coffee if you wish. I want to be of all possible use while we are together." "You will never leave me, Marjorie," I answered, "if I am allowed to set the time of your departure. Don't think, I beg, that I would say these things if I did not mean them. I want you for my true and loving wife--understand, that is what I mean--wife; and something tells me that, when you think it over, you will grant my wish." She flushed until her neck was as rosy as her cheek. Several very long breaths came and went to stir her matchless bosom. She seemed as if strangling for an instant and recovered her equanimity with difficulty. "Mr. Camwell--" she began. "'Don,'" I corrected. "No, not at this moment," she answered. "Do you recollect to whom you are speaking? I am a nearly friendless girl--who has trusted herself to your manhood and honor. I am far from my home, if indeed I can truly claim to have one; you know nothing about me. It is madness if you mean what you say. It is villainy of the deepest dye if you do not mean it." "We shall have to call it madness, then," I replied, smiling at the thought that I knew her heart in spite of all her efforts to conceal its true pulsations. "I might fall at your feet, declaim my story after the manner of a stage hero, all that sort of thing. I believe it best to tell you what I have to say in the plain, sincere tone that a matter of great moment should be spoken. I love you, Marjorie! I have loved you since the minute my eyes rested on your face. I shall love no other woman while life remains to me. I offer you my hand in sincere and honest affection, and may God--" She half rose from her chair and lifted a hand deprecatingly. "Don't say that!" she interpolated, with distress in her tone. "I will believe you without the oath. But, I cannot listen. It is impossible. You must not--you must not--" "My darling," I said, leaning toward her, and speaking lower than any native of St. Croix, "I know I have surprised you, by coming to the point in such an unconventional and sudden fashion. We will say no more about it--to-night." "Neither to-night, nor ever," she replied, earnestly. "Oh, why have you done this? We were such good friends; and now, it never can be the same again!" There were tears in her eyes, and at sight of them my resolution to remain cool took wings. Rising, I clasped the shrinking form in my arms, and poured into her ears the love that was consuming me. I said the only answer I would ever listen to from her was "Yes." I would wait, if need be, but I must have it. Never, never, should she separate from me. The love I had to offer was that of a lifetime.