"You _haven't_ failed me--you _have_ a right to me--I never loved you so much in all my life--" she hurried on, almost incoherently, searching for words of comfort. "Dearest--will it make you feel any better--if I say I'll marry you--right away?" "What do you mean? When?" "To-night, if you like. Oh, Austin, I love you so that it doesn't matter a bit--whether I'm afraid or not. The only thing that really counts--is to have you happy! And since I've realized that--I find that I'm not afraid of anything in the whole world--and that I want to belong to you as much--and as soon--as you can possibly want to have me!" * * * * * It was many months before Hamstead stopped talking about the "Graduation Ball of that year." It surpassed, to an almost extraordinary degree, any that had ever been held there. But the event upon which the village best loved to dwell was the entrance of Sylvia Cary, the loveliest vision it had ever beheld, on Austin Gray's arm, when all the other guests were already there, and everyone had despaired of their coming. Following the unwritten law in country places, which decrees that all persons engaged, married, or "keeping company," must have their "first dance" together, she gave that to Austin. Then Thomas and James, Frank and Fred, Peter, and even Mr. Gray and Mr. Elliott, all claimed their turn, and by that time Austin was waiting impatiently again. But country parties are long, and before the night was over, all the men and boys, who had been watching her in church, and bowing when they met her in the road, and seizing every possible chance to speak to her when they went to the Homestead on errands--or excuses for errands--had demanded and been given a dance. She was lighter than thistledown--indeed, there were moments when she seemed scarcely a woman at all, but a mere essence of fragile beauty and sweetness and graciousness. It had been generally conceded beforehand that the honors of the ball would all go to Edith, but even Edith herself admitted that she took a second place, and that she was glad to take it. Dawn was turning the quiet valley and distant mountains into a riotous rosy glory, when, as they drove slowly up to her house, Austin gently raised the gossamer scarf which had blown over Sylvia's face, half-hiding it from him. She looked up with a smile to answer his. "Are you very tired, dear?" "Not at all--just too happy to talk much, that's all." "Sylvia--" "Yes, darling--" "You know I have planned to start West with Peter three days after Sally's wedding--" "Yes--" "Would you rather I didn't go?" "No; I'm glad you're going--I mean, I'm glad you have decided to keep to your plan." "What makes you think I have?" "Because, being you, you couldn't do otherwise." "But when I come back--" Her fingers tightened in his.