As Ahleka stopped to draw in the surf board, Mabel started up to the beach in the direction of the village, but Ahleka called after her: “Mabel, will you not stay and walk in the sun until your hair is once more dry, and like the rays of the morning sun for brightness?” She returned, her damp hair clinging about her shoulders and bosom. They paced slowly up and down the silvery sand, and continued to do so long after her skirts of sea grass, and her hair were dry; but it was so pleasant to walk there in the fresh balmy morning air. Ahleka looked down at the little figure beside him, his eyes filled with the tenderest love. Mabel, glancing up, encountered his impassioned gaze, “Ahleka, my Ahleka,” she softly murmured, hardly knowing what she said. In an instant, as his ear detected the tenderness in her voice, he caught her in his arms, holding her so closely as actually to hurt her. “Ahleka,” she said, “I was going to ask why you did not join the young men in the festival of the maidens.” “Oh, my love, could I join the young men to be chosen in marriage when she, whom I adore, does not join the maidens?” “But I thought all unmarried men were obliged to join the ranks.” “That is true, but the chief of each village is an exception, so I need not join unless I wish.” While they had been talking, they had found a soft bank of deep moss under wide-spread trees. On this bank they now reclined, Ahleka holding Mabel’s hand in both of his. “According to our custom I should have waited until you declared your love for me, but my father has explained the customs of your land to me, and I—oh, my love, my fair white lily, my precious moon maiden, can you love Ahleka?” She raised her eyes to his, but before she could answer him, he had showered warm kisses over her face, neck and shoulders, in a transport of tenderness. “Ah,” he cried, “if you say no; you love me not, I have kissed you, and that is happiness.” Then, as she lay passive in his arms, it filled him with a horrible dread, and he exclaimed: “How can I expect that you will love me, who am only a savage at most, whose skin is black! What do I think of?” “Do not speak so Ahleka, I do love you,” she whispered, putting her arm about his neck and nestling closely in his embrace; “I do love you; how could I help loving you after all your kindness to us.” “No, that is gratitude, not love, if you feel that way,” he said, relaxing his hold of her form. “No, no, Ahleka, I love you because I cannot help myself.” “Then you will be my own? Mine forever, my little one,” drawing her again close in his arms. “Yes, I am yours,” she seemed to breathe her reply. “The yearly festival shall find us ever fond. We will join in the festival to-day, shall we not?” asked he. “No, let us wait until the next festival. The months between will be so sweet, filled as they will be by our dream of happiness.”