Bill took her in his arms, felt her yield, saw her head tilt back against his shoulder. He drew a deep breath that was like a sob, and bent and kissed her hair. Doris was looking from the gold-specked quartz in her hand to the gold-specked ridge lying naked to the sky. Her eyes were big and deep, like the blue of the sky. "Do you love me, Doris?" Bill dared to lean and speak his one absorbing hunger, his lips close to her ear. "Yes--Oh, Bill, it doesn't seem possible! I--I can't realize it. Can you? Doris was staring still at the gold. "It's like a dream come true--a thousand times better than I'd ever dare to dream it." Bill was looking at the way the sunlight turned her brown hair to burnished copper, strand by strand. His voice broke. He laid his cheek against the copper shine. "You love me! God, I was always scared to dream you ever would!" Doris stirred in his arms. She was lifting the piece of ore, turning it this way and that, watching it shine in the sun and in the shade alike. That was the test--pyrites wouldn't shine in the shade. It was gold, absolutely it _must_ be gold! "Oh, Bill, aren't you--excited?" She had turned so that she could look into his face. "It's an awfully rich strike, isn't it?" "Why--yes, I suppose it is." Bill looked briefly at the vein. "Yes, it's the richest stuff I ever saw in the ground. But it doesn't mean anything to me, Doris, alongside your--love." He whispered the last word shyly against her cheek. "You'll marry me right away, won't you, Doris? I've--wanted you so long; ever since that first time I met you. I've thought and dreamed about you--but it didn't seem possible you could ever care. Only, I thought if I made a real stake, and you did like me well enough, I could give you everything in the world you wanted. It's as you say: I can't realize it yet. I--wish you'd say it again; just once more. _Do_ you--care?" For answer Doris smiled up at him brilliantly. "You great, big silly," she said softly. Bill kissed her lips and wondered if a man could bear greater joy than was his. Not to have just weary, wishful dreams of her; to have Doris herself, her love, her willingness to trust herself to him. He felt humbled, ashamed of every little human, masculine fault. In one sweeping, swift repentance as he stood there, he resolved to attain perfection for her sake--or as near to perfection as a man may approach. "You know, daddy and mother will have to be asked before I can--promise absolutely," she reminded him prudently. "So let's not talk about it any more just now, Bill." "Why, I--I _couldn't_ talk about it," Bill said slowly. "Some things go too deep. You just can't find any words; or I can't. I'll just have to prove as I go along--what it means to me."