"You--you don't have to say anything--now," she told him somewhat faintly. If it had been up yonder, with the jutting escarpments of the hills about them, this wild moment would have shaped itself in more orthodox fashion with the eternal fitnesses. But the moment left them with something of tumultuous exaltation, as though they had burst together through the shell of a superficial world and touched the essentials. After a little, when again they could realize the more tranquil voices of the birds and the little winds, Anne, with a hand on each of his shoulders, spoke slowly and very thoughtfully: "I don't need to be told, Boone. If I didn't know, life wouldn't be worth much to me." "When I'm away from you," he answered still in a shaken voice, "I always hear your voice. I always see you, yet when I come back to you, you're always a surprise to me--I find that my memory hasn't been able to do you justice." She was silent for a little, and then into the serene contentment of her eyes crept a tiny shadow of trouble. "Boone, dear," she said soberly, "we have a long time to wait--and we can't afford to--let ourselves--be tempest-tossed this way--until we can see the end. We can't be patient and--like this--at the same time." "How can I be patient?" he demanded. "You know," she reminded him. "I'm not wearing an engagement ring yet and--" His face shadowed ruefully, but he forced a confident smile and pitched his tone to the manner of jest. "The ring that's fit for you to wear ought to cost a king's ransom, Anne," he declared, "and I haven't any monarchs in the 'jail-house' just yet." "It isn't that, dear, and you know it. If I were to wear your ring now--with years perhaps of waiting--it would only mean endless war at home. There'll be unavoidable battles enough when the time comes. It hardly seems worth while to court them in advance." "I knew,"--he spoke with a heavy heart--"that they'd take you through the torture chamber before they let you marry me. Are you sure, dearest, that I'm worth it to you?" The girl's head came up with the tilt of pride which he loved, and with the violet blaze in its eyes. "Have I complained?" she asked. "Anne,"--the man bent forward and spoke with the fervent earnestness of invincible resolve--"I have a long way to go. I'm still down on the ground level and you are still the evening star! Stars and groundlings, dear heart! They're very far apart, but there's a beacon burning before me and there's a magic in your love!" His expression had grown as tender as it had a little while before been elemental, yet it was not less purposeful. "In time, by God's grace I shall climb up to you, but it's a steep journey, and it's asking a good deal of you to mark time while I travel it." "It's asking so much," declared the girl, "that I wouldn't do it if it wasn't the one thing in the world I want to do--if my heart wasn't set on that and nothing else." "Thank God!" he breathed, "and thank _you_!"