"Wonderful!" John exclaimed rapturously, rising as she entered. Bessie’s mood was lightly happy. His was deeply reverent, and there was a world of devotion and tenderness in the look he gave her, which thrilled through the girl like an ecstasy. All the past was coming up to John’s mind, all the long past of their friendship with its gradual ripening into normal, all-comprehending love, but still he was searching her uplifted face as if for a final confirmation of the oneness of the vision of his love with this materialization of youth and woman mingling; for he must make no mistake this time. Yes, the confirmation was complete. It was the true face of his dream. In it was everything which he had hoped to find there. Marien Dounay had made woman mean more to him than woman had ever meant before. But here in the upturned, trusting face of Bessie, with its sparkle in the eyes and its sunny witchery in the dimples, there was something infinitely richer and more satisfying than experience or imagination had been able to suggest. Here, he told himself reverently, was every blessing that God had compounded for the happiness of man. And it was his,—modestly, trustfully his. Every detail of her expression and her beauty, every subtly playing current of her personality, made him know it. He had but to declare himself and reach out and take her like a lover. But, strangely, he could do neither. An awe was on him. He felt like falling down upon his knees and thanking God, but not like taking her; not like touching her even, though he could not resist that when Bessie extended frankly both her hands, quite in the old manner of cordial, happy comradeship. John took them in his, and as she returned his touch with the warm frank clasp that was characteristic of her hearty nature, he got anew the sense of the woman in her. It swept over him like an intoxication that was rare and wonderful, like no rapture he had ever known before—half-spiritual but half wholly human—therefore with something in it that frightened him. "Bessie," he asked, abruptly, "could we get away from here quickly—in a very few minutes—away from men and houses and things?" Bessie looked surprised. "Of course; we’re going out, aren’t we?" "But quickly," urged John, "just a mad impulse, just a romantic impulse; the feeling that I want to get you out of doors. You are like a flower to me, just bursting into beautiful bloom. Better still, a wonderful fruit, which in some sheltered spot has grown unplucked to a rich tinted ripeness. You are so much a part of nature, so utterly unartificial, that it seems I must see you and enjoy you first in a setting of nature’s own."