It had come; the moment of which I had told myself in dreams and visions; the moment to which I had looked forward with a strange fear and a great hope. "Jean," I whispered. "I love you. Will you be my wife?" As I write the words they seem very bare and matter-of-fact. But they were all that Jean required. She made no spoken answer, but she turned her face to mine, and I drew her up in my strong arms and kissed her in the breathless passion of our young love. . . . . After a time, with one box serving us both, we talked of our future. I hinted that circumstances made our immediate marriage somewhat dependent upon the course that Jack and Marjorie might elect to follow. I took it for granted that Jack and Marjorie would marry, but I was very vague in my idea as to when this would happen. "I don't think we shall have to wait on Jack and Marjorie," Jean remarked, knowingly. "I rather think they have been waiting on us." "Then they need wait no longer," I said, boldly. "I am ready at once; now." "We might make it by Christmas," Jean remarked, more thoughtfully. "We can't afford any special wedding clothes but we can at least afford a few weeks' anticipation." "Then Christmas be it!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Merry Christmas!" I was so stirred with a strange new joy that all the future looked rosy and inviting. But suddenly I felt Jean's arm tighten on my neck and I looked up in her face just in time to catch the splash of a warm tear on my cheek. I was immediately filled with wonder and misgiving. What could make Jean cry, in a moment of such happiness? I pressed the question. "I'm not sorry," she said at length, "but I'm a little--frightened. Not for you; for myself. Oh, my dear Frank, my dear boy--will you always--will we always--love each other as we do to-night?" Man-like, I assured her that of course we would. She rested her head against mine, and for awhile she seemed to nestle at peace in the soft luxury of our love. But presently a shiver ran through her frame, and, drawing back a little, she looked me fairly in the eyes. "You know, Frank," she murmured, "it seems strange to say it, but I am so glad to get this settled." "Not gladder than I, little one," said I, shaping my lips to endearments with the awkwardness of my racial reticence. "You couldn't be gladder than I am." "I have wanted so long," she continued, almost disregarding my interruption, "to get it settled--to be sure of myself--to know just what is going to happen." "To be sure of yourself? How sure of yourself?"