A vivid flash of lightning, followed by a deafening roar of thunder in the angry sky, brought them back to earth. The raindrops began to beat against their faces. Sharp, hysterical laughter rose to their lips, and they set out on a run for the still distant hotel. The deluge came just as they reached the shelter of a friendly awning in front of a grocery store. The wide, old-fashioned covering afforded safe retreat. Panting, they drew up and ensconced themselves as far back as possible in the doorway. She was not afraid of the storm. Life with the circus had made her quite impervious to the crash of thunder; the philosophy of Vagabondia had taught her that lightning is not dangerous unless it strikes. The circus man is a fatalist. A person dies when his time comes, not before. It is all marked down for him. Of the two, David was certainly the more nervous. His arm was about her shoulders; her firm, slender body was drawn close to his. His clasp tightened as the timidity of inexperience gave way to confidence; an amazing sense of conquest, of possession took hold of him. He could have shouted defiance to the storm. He held her! This beautiful, warm, alive creature belonged to him! "Are you afraid,--dearest?" he called, his lips close to her ear. "Not a bit, David," she cried rapturously. "I love it. Isn't it wonderful?" She turned her head on his shoulder. His lips swept her cheek. Before either of them knew what had happened their lips met--a frightened, hasty, timorous kiss that was not even prophetic of the joys that were to grow out of it. "Oh, David, you must not do that!" cried the very maiden in her. "Has any one ever kissed you before?" he demanded, fiercely jealous on a sudden. She drew back, hurt, aghast. "Why, David!" she cried. He mumbled an apology. "Christine," he announced resolutely, "I am going to marry you when you are old enough." She gasped. "But, David--" she began, tremulous with doubt and perplexity. "I know," he said as she hesitated; "you are afraid I'll not be cleared of this charge. But I am sure to be--as sure as there is a God. Then, when you are nineteen or twenty, I mean to ask you to be my wife. You are my sweetheart now--oh, my dearest sweet-heart! Christine, you won't let any one else come in and take my place? You'll be just as you are now until we are older and--" "Wait, David! Let me think. I--I _could_ be your wife, couldn't I? I am a Portman. I _am_ good enough to--to be what you want me to be, am I not, David? You understand, don't you? Mother says I am a Portman. I am not common and vulgar, am I, David? I--" "I couldn't love you if you were that, Christine. You are fit to be the wife of a--a king," he concluded eagerly. "I have learned so much from you," she said, so softly he could barely hear the words. "It's the other way round. You've taught me a thousand times more than you ever could learn from me," he protested. "I'm nobody. I've never seen anything of life."