“If she writes me any more silly notes about maple sugar socials on her everlasting pink paper and smelling of shampoo powders, I’ll stop speaking to her,” he declared. “Let’s settle it to-day, Thurley—announce our engagement in the Saturday _Gazette_. Everything I have or ever will have is yours. I love you; I’ll do what you say and be as you would have me. Darling, you’ve no one in this world to look out for you and I’ve no one to look out for. Let me take care of you! Please, I care so hard.” His dark, handsome face was very close to hers and, suddenly, he laid his head on her shoulder, smothering a sob. Thurley’s sunrise, rose-red self went out to him in sympathy. “Does it mean so much?” “Just—everything,” was the incoherent answer. “Then—I will.” Tears came into her blue eyes. “I couldn’t make you wait any longer. Look at me.” She lifted his face between her hands and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long, wonderful instant. “Dan, it may be a mistake, but I think I do love you even if I’m not willing to be a house-and-garden wife and stop my singing.... I’d perish if I stopped singing, so promise me you’ll never ask it.” “Not in church and parlors and like that,” he said unwillingly, “but my wife isn’t going to sing on the stage.” Thurley’s brows drew together in perplexity. “Well, maybe no one will ever ask me,” she evaded. “We won’t quarrel about it until they do—only I’d fight you pretty hard if you tried to stop my singing—it means even more than you do!” “It won’t after we are married,” he asserted jealously, “and I won’t wait long for you either. We’ll live at the hotel until the house is ready. I want to begin the plans to-morrow.” “Oh, Dan, a year anyway! Whatever will Granny do?” “Move her into the hotel,” he promised generously. “But you’ve got to marry me in September! Let’s go over to Philena’s grave and pledge it.” “I don’t think I deserve you, you’re so much in earnest, but I am sort of playing a lovely, interesting part—a wonderful part, too, but I’d really like to have strangers here to see how well I do it,” Thurley tried to explain as they came up to a white cross newer than the surrounding markers on which was engraved: Philena, beloved grandchild of Betsey Pilrig, Young, beautiful and good, God numbered her among His angels At the early age of fifteen! “Now promise,” Dan insisted, holding her hands. “I promise,” Thurley answered. Leaning over the cross, they kissed each other with tender solemnity. “Shall we sit here and talk,” Thurley asked, “or walk back?” “Anything you like. You’re so beautiful to-day, Thurley, I wonder if you realize how beautiful you are! I’m going to make you wear the proper sort of clothes and send right off for your ring.” Thurley glanced at her pink cotton blouse and white wash skirt in disdain. “I hate bothering over clothes and yet I’d like rich, weird creations just dropped from the skies. I never could sit and sew like—”