In excess of happiness, he caught the hand beside him almost to his lips; and then, instead, pressed it against his breast, against his heart. His laugh was almost incoherent. "I was so afraid you'd say 'no.'" The light shone only on her averted cheek. "I was so afraid ... you wouldn't ask me!" "Silly girl! When every infinitesimal part of me aches and cries out to you! I can't believe yet that you've said yes." "Yes," in joyous affection. "And I will aim a lifetime toward making you glad you've said it!" "I'll always be glad, no matter what comes." "I've got to let you go now--it must be almost three.... And I'm not going to kiss you, even now, dearest--dearest--dearest! I'll say it all night to myself; I'll never use another word----" "Well, hardly ever," she amended prettily. "When we can be married, then you'll let me kiss you. And don't put me off too long!" He fingered the wheel thoughtfully; why let her out at all? No, he must help protect her now. "Good night, Jane ... dearest mine." "Good-night ... my man." His car sliced the friendly night that lay heavy on the hill road. He whirled up the great half circle to the crest far to the east of the cottage, and muffled the engine at the highest point. To his left, too far away to be distinguished except as an irregular blackness against the softer gray of the valley behind, lay the black peak of Crenshaw Hill, the fatal shattered entries beyond it, the mourning shacks of Hewintown near it. There was no light in them. Behind was the blur of Shadow Valley, and the endless diminishing rollers of hills sloping slowly to the salt gulf monotonous miles away. Before him lay Adamsville, almost asleep; the symmetrical criss-cross of lights, like a vast checker-board blending into the far distance, caught his imagination. His heart sang aloud with his own happiness--an emotion so overcoming, that he forced himself to think of lesser topics, to regain mental balance before returning to the rapture of Jane again....