A long-drawn breath rose in her bosom, filling it, filling her, filling everything. A “Sunday Magazine” dropped from her hand, and she stood up. He too stood, and they faced each other for a long moment, and the new certainty became the only certainty there was. “Oh, are you sure, are you sure?” she cried. And there was no more need of words just then. * * * * * “Since you took the hare out of the trap,” she said. “I think I loved you for that.” “Since you caught my finger in the trap----“ “And it bled,” said she. “But you bound it up for me.” She raised her face and held him by the shoulders, arms outstretched. “And I remember saying to Martin that this was the sort of room in which nothing nice could happen. Oh, Frank, how has it happened? How has it happened?” she said. “I don’t know how, my darling, but I know why.” “Why, then?” “Because it had to happen as far as I was concerned. Because it was you, in fact. How could it have been otherwise?” Her eyes dropped a moment, and then looked full at him again. “Is it real?” she asked. “And if it hadn’t happened, what would have become of us? Supposing you had not said ‘Helen’?” “What else could I have said?” “You might have said nothing.” “Nothing? You and I here together, and nothing? I had been saying nothing too long,” he cried. “No, not too long. It has all been perfect. And--and the ‘Sunday Magazine,’ and--and twelve labels, each with their numbers. Oh, I surrender,” she said. “When you have utterly conquered?” “Yes, both. And both of us.” “There is only one.” * * * * * It was no descent to return to the unfinished work; the business of label-pasting rather was illuminated and made glorious, the putting of the books back in the shelves was a procession of love. Then came the return to the vicarage under the benediction of the sun and the intrusion of the presence of others; but as some telegraph from lover to lover throbs across hundreds of miles of arid and desert country that does not know what secret and blissful tenderness has passed over it, so from each to the other passed unnoticed glances that sent the electric current to and fro, and the words of common life were to them a cypher charged with intimate meaning. It had been settled between the two that her father should be told at once, and accordingly, after lunch, when he went into his study to get Frank the promised cigar, with a view to coffee on the shady croquet-lawn, the latter followed him, while the two ladies went out, and told him. “It is the happiest day of my life, Mr. Challoner,” he said, very simply. “Your daughter has accepted my devotion and love.” Mr. Challoner turned to him quickly. “Helen?” he said. “You? Lord Yorkshire, this is most unexpected. But I am charmed, delighted, at your news. And I risk the imputation of a father’s partiality when I say that I congratulate you most heartily.”