He never once thought what he should do with his life after he married her. He tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of his marriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the grave of his young wife. Poor Rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sad secret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, her remarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; he could not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it up to public gaze. It would have been easier for him to tear the living, beating heart from his breast than to do this. He had walked into the parlor that morning, where he knew he should find Pluma. She was standing before the fire. Although it was early spring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over the exquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lace frills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarlet blossoms, which Pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to such queenly advantage. Rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have been proud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him. "Good-morning, Rex," she said, holding out her white hands to him. "I am glad you have come to talk to me. I was watching you walking up and down under the trees, and you looked so lonely I half made up my mind to join you." A lovely color was deepening in her cheeks, and her eyes drooped shyly. He broke right into the subject at once while he had the courage to do it. "I have something to say to you, Pluma," he began, leading her to an adjacent sofa and seating himself beside her. "I want to ask you if you will be my wife." He looked perhaps the more confused of the two. "I will do my best to make you happy," he continued. "I can not say that I will make a model husband, but I will say I will do my best." There was a minute's silence, awkward enough for both. "You have asked me to be your wife, Rex, but you have not said one word of loving me." The remark was so unexpected Rex seemed for a few moments to be unable to reply to it. Looking at the eager, expectant face turned toward him, it appeared ungenerous and unkind not to give her one affectionate word. Yet he did not know how to say it; he had never spoken a loving word to any one except Daisy, his fair little child-bride. He tried hard to put the memory of Daisy away from him as he answered: "The question is so important that most probably I have thought more of it than of any words which should go with it." "Oh, that is it," returned Pluma, with a wistful little laugh. "Most men, when they ask women to marry them, say something of love, do they not?" "Yes," he replied, absently. "You have had no experience," laughed Pluma, archly.