He found the path from the drive where the children played, and he found the bench where he had sat with Sally Winthrop. Then all she had told him came back to him, as it had in the dairy lunch. "It's about the other plans I want to tell you out here," he began eagerly. "Yes, Don." "I've done a lot of work while you were away," he said proudly. "It seems a pity it was necessary," she answered. "It's been the best thing that ever happened to me," he corrected her. "It has made me see straight about a lot of things. And it's helped me to make good in the office." She looked puzzled. "You mean you've been made a partner or something?" "Hardly that--yet," he smiled. "But it's pretty sure I'll be put to selling when I come back." "You're going away?" "I'm on my vacation," he explained. "This is the first day of my vacation." "Oh, then you _can_ come with us?" "I'd rather you came with me." "With you, Don? But where?" "Anywhere you wish, as long as we go together and alone. Only we must get back in two weeks." "Don, dear!" "I mean it," he went on earnestly. "I want to marry you to-morrow or next day. Your trunks are all packed, and you needn't unpack them. We'll spend all the time we can spare in the mountains, and then come back--to the house. It's all ready for you, Frances. It's waiting for you." She stared about in fear lest some one might be overhearing his rambling talk. "Don," she gasped. "Nora has cleaned every room," he ran on, "and I've saved a hundred dollars for the trip. And Farnsworth is going to give me a raise before December. He hasn't promised it, but I know he'll do it, because I'm going to make good. You and I together will make good." She did not answer. She could not. She was left quite paralyzed. He was leaning forward expectantly. "You'll come with me?" It was a full minute before she could answer. Then she said:-- "It's so impossible, Don." "Impossible?" "One doesn't--doesn't get married that way!" "What does it matter how one gets married?" he answered. "What would people say?" "I don't care what they'd say." "You mustn't get like that, Don, dear," she chided him. "Why, that's being an anarchist or something, isn't it?" "It's just being yourself, little girl," he explained more gently. "The trouble with us is, we've thought too much about other people and--other things. It's certain that after we're married people aren't going to worry much about us, so why should we let them worry us before that? No, it's all our own affair. As for the salary part of it, we've been wrong about that, too. We don't need so much as we thought we did. Why, do you know you can get a good lunch downtown for fifteen cents? It's a fact. You can get an egg sandwich, a chocolate eclair, and a cup of coffee for that. I know the place. And I've figured that, with the house all furnished us, we can live easy on twenty-five a week until I get more. You don't need your ten thousand a year. It's a fact, Frances."