"We could ask no better woman for our daughter," he said. "I was very blind. Jack knew, but his mother knew best of all. My wife is very wise, Silvette—far wiser than I.... And I have—I am in debt—to the name you bear. I thought by giving you my boy I was canceling it.... You put me under obligations I am unable to meet—unless you can accept my—affection—as collateral. Can you, child?" Her hand moved slightly—moved farther across the polished surface of the desk. His hand fell over it. "Thank you," he said. They remained silent for a few moments; then he gently relinquished her hand and went out, leaving the door just ajar. When Silvette lifted her head from the desk, she knew that Jack had entered. Tall and quiet, he stood looking at her; tall and pale, she rose, looked at him steadily, came toward him as he moved toward her, and laid both hands fearlessly in his. "I didn’t know," she said. "I wouldn’t let myself even think of you.... Do you want me, Jack?" Then down he went on one knee, and kissed hers, and her hands, and her gown; and, confused, she drew away, then waited as he rose waited, looking at him as his arm encircled her. Very gravely they exchanged their first kiss. That seemed to break the divine spell, for they found their tongues very quickly now, and, sitting perched on his father’s desk, side by side, feet hanging, and hand in hand, they succumbed to the rapture of garrulity, asking Love’s same old questions with all the ardor of neophytes, and answering as Love has answered for many a century, and will answer for many more—tritely, passionately, and with that incurable redundance of which lovers alone are masters. *CHAPTER XIII* *CUI MALO* For the present, it was decided between Mr. Rivett and his wife that the engagements of both their children should be kept secret. Except those immediately concerned, only the parents, Diana, and Mr. Dineen knew; and Edgerton, as the nearest male relative of Silvette, was to be informed. It had been left to Diana to inform him. Silvette wrote a hasty and cordial note for her sister to inclose; then Diana took her writing materials up to the mossy ledge in the woods from where Edgerton and she had once taken the Path to Yesterday on that sun-drenched morning so long—so long ago. She had never been there since. Once, strolling with Scott Wallace, he had espied the ledge, climbed thither, and called to her to join him in a new-found wonderland. But it was not new-found to her, and the wonder of it had departed; and she continued on along the river bank below, heedless of his enthusiasm and persuasion. Now something drew her there. What the sentiment was she did not analyze. Perhaps it was because the girl knew no spot as intimate, no fitter place in which to write him of her sister’s happiness.