Again a quick breath shook that gentle bosom—a breath of sheerest ecstasy—then, with a quick movement, Mamie turned her head and laid her lips to his. “And I you!” she said. “And, oh, Allan, you have made me happy!” “Nothing to what I am.” “Oh, yes,” she contradicted, seriously. “Much happier. You see, I never thought that you—that I—” “Well, go on.” “I never thought that I was good enough.” “Good enough! You’re a thousand times too good. That’s what worries me, Mamie.” “I—I thought maybe, after you were married, you—you’d let me keep house for you, or something of that sort, so that I could see you—” “I won’t listen!” cried Allan, and stopped her lips. “Oh, but you must,” she said, freeing herself, “because I want you to know. I would have been quite happy doing that.” “Poor little Cinderella!” “But the Prince has come, and the slipper fits. I shall always believe in fairy tales, after this,” she added, her eyes shining, “because I know one that’s come true.” They were silent for a moment, too full of their new happiness for any need of words. Then she snuggled her cheek close to his. “When did you begin to love me, Allan?” she whispered, shyly. “That day when I picked you up from in front of the locomotive.” “Seriously, Allan; tell me.” “I don’t know,” he said, drawing back so that he could see her rosy, tender face. “I started long before I knew it—away back when you were a little girl, I guess. I can see now how it grew and grew and made its foundation more and more secure, so that there was no shaking it; but I never woke to it till that night I came home from Cincinnati and you met me at the door. Then it struck me all of a sudden, and it was all I could do to keep from taking you in my arms—” Mamie gave a delighted little wiggle. “I knew it!” she said. “I saw it—and—I’m ashamed to confess it, Allan!” “To confess what?” “How badly I wanted you to—and how I tried to make you.” He laughed delightedly. “Really? Why, you little siren!” “Yes; but then, you know, I’d loved you much longer than you had me.” “How much longer?” “Oh, ages longer; since that very first time, I think. You know, I kissed you then.” “Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort.” “Only, of course, at first,” she added, “I didn’t think about your loving anybody else, or care.” “You were afraid of that?” “You did, you know,” she said, accusingly. “Not really, Mamie,” he protested, earnestly. “Not like this—not in the least like this. Betty Heywood was right when she said I was never in love with her—it was with girls in general, but not with her.” “I don’t know that that makes it any better,” pouted Mamie. “Oh, yes, it does; it isn’t in the least like being in love with an individual. Mamie,” he asked, suddenly, “I’ve never been able to understand. What was it led you to me out there in that old house?”