"And yet--" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over her shoulder. "You are my Rose," says he, softly. "And you--do you love but one?" She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning. "Am I that one, darling?" She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered lids. "Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press him--from her. But he holds her fast. "Make me sure!" he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on her part, and then--their lips meet. "I have doubted always--always a little--ever since that night down by the river," says he, "but now----" "Oh, no! You must not doubt me again!" says she with tears in her eyes. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's April's Lady, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford