A light wind swept the leaves from her hand, and blew the ends of her white veil against my breast. "And suppose," she demanded in a clear voice, "that love was all that I wanted?" Her lashes did not tremble; but in her eyes, in her parted red lips, and in her whole swift and expectant figure, there was something noble and free, as if she were swept forward by the radiant purpose which shone in her look. "Not my love--not yet--my darling," I said. At the word her blush came. "You say you have only yourself to give," she went on with an effort. "Is it possible that in the future--in any future--you could have more than yourself?" "Not more love, Sally, not more love." "Then more of what?" "Of things that other men and women count worth the having!" The sparkle returned to her eyes, and I watched the old childish archness play in her face. "Do I understand that you are proposing to other men and women or to me, sir?" she enquired, above her muff, in the prim tone of Miss Mitty. "To neither the one nor the other," I answered stubbornly, though I longed to kiss the mockery away from her curving lips. "When the time comes I shall return to you." "And you are doing this for the sake of other people, not for me," she said. "I suppose, indeed, that it's Aunt Mitty and Aunt Matoaca you are putting before me. They would be flattered, I am sure, if they could only know of it--but they can't. As a matter of fact, they also put something before me, so I don't appear to come first with anybody. Aunt Mitty prefers her pride and Aunt Matoaca prefers her principles, and you prefer both--" "I am only twenty-six," I returned. "In five years--in ten at most--I shall be far in the race--" "And quite out of breath with the running," she observed, "by the time you turn and come back for me." "I don't dare ask you to wait for me." "As a matter of fact," she responded serenely, "I don't think I shall. I could never endure waiting." Her calmness was like a dash of cold water into my face. "Don't laugh at me whatever you do," I implored. "I'm not laughing--it's far too serious," she retorted. "That scheme of yours," she flashed out suddenly, "is worthy of the great brain of the General." "Now I'll stand anything but that!" I replied, and turned squarely on her; "Sally, do you love me?" "Love a man who puts both his pride and his principles before me?" "If you don't love me--and, of course you can't--why do you torment me?" "It isn't torment, it's education. When next you start to propose to the lady of your choice, don't begin by telling her you are lovesick for the good opinion of her maiden aunts." "Sally, Sally!" I cried joyfully. My hand went out to hers, and then as she turned away--my arm was about her, and the little fur hat with the bunch of violets was on my breast. "O, Ben Starr, were you born blind?" she said with a sob.