"You never have after, just the first day," he said; "but I did not expect thanks. Thanks were not in the bond, _you_ were in the bond, you know. That is all I want." He sat down then near me, and we both must have felt the same summer breeze blowing on our faces. "I am picturing the time when the year is out," he said slowly, "when you and I are away together in the country. I never cared much for the country, nor for nature, nor for anything of that sort, but I think I should like those things if you were with me. You embody a great deal to me, you make poetry for me. I never knew what poetry was before. I never cared for anything but nonsense rhymes and matters of that sort, until I met you, but you make poetry and beauty for me and all the best things of life. There is nothing I won't promise to do for you when you come to me, and in the meantime----" "Yes," I said, "in the meantime." "If you are certain sure, Westenra, that you are going to keep your bond, why, I--I won't worry you more than I can help just at present." "Certain sure that I am going to keep my bond? Yes, I am sure," I said. "Would I take your money and, and deceive you? Would I have asked you to save us and deceive you? No, no; you think I am good. I am not specially good, but I am not so low as that." "Dear child," he said, and now he took my hand and stroked it softly. He did not squeeze it, or draw it near to him, but he laid it on one of his own huge palms and kept on stroking it. "The very prettiest little paw I ever saw in my life," he said then; "it's wonderful how slim it is, and how long, and how white, and what little taper fingers; it's wonderful. I never saw anything like it. You are a poem to me, that's just what you are, Westenra, you are a poem to me, and you will make a new man of me, and you will keep the bond, won't you, dear?" "I will," I said. "I have put down the date," he said; "I put it down in my note-book; I am going to keep it _always_ by me; it is writ in my heart too. I declare I am getting poetical myself when I look at you. It's writ in my heart in gold letters. It was the 18th of May when you promised yourself to me, dear. May is not a lucky month to marry in, so we will marry on the first of June of next year. You'll promise me that, won't you?" "Yes," I said. "And in the meantime very likely you would rather not have it known." "It has been most kind and generous of you and Mrs. Fanning not to speak of it," I answered.