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His dreamy eyes smiled across at her.

“Thank God!” she thought, answering his smile.

There was no dampness in the air; she aided him to the garden, where he resumed his crutches and hobbled as far as the wonderful bush that bore a single belated rose.

“In the South,” he said, under his breath, “there is no lack of these…. I think–I think all will be well in the South.”

He tired easily, and she helped him back to his study, where young Burleson presently found them, strolling in with his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket.

His exchange of greetings with Miss Elliott was quietly formal; with her father almost tender. It was one of the things she cared most for in him; and she walked to the veranda, leaving the two men alone–the man and the shadow of a man.

Once she heard laughter in the room behind her; and it surprised her, pacing the veranda there. Yet Burleson always brought a new anecdote to share with her father–and heretofore he had shared these with her, too. But now!–

Yet it was by her own choice she was alone there, pacing the moonlit porches.

The maid–their only servant–brought a decanter; she could hear the ring of the glasses, relics of better times…. And now better times were dawning again–brief, perhaps, for her father, yet welcome as Indian summer.

After a long while Burleson came to the door, and she looked up, startled.

“Will you sing? Your father asks it.”

“Won’t you ask me, too, Mr. Burleson?”

“Yes.”

“But I want to show you my rose first. Will you come?–it is just a step.”

He walked out into the moonlight with her; they stood silently before the bush which had so capriciously bloomed.

“Now–I will sing for you, Mr. Burleson,” she said, amiably. And they returned to the house, finding not a word to say on the way.

The piano was in decent tune; she sat down, nodding across at her father, and touched a chord or two.

“The same song–the one your mother cared for,” murmured her father.

And she looked at Burleson dreamily, then turned, musing with bent head, sounding a note, a tentative chord. And then she sang.

A dropping chord, lingering like fragrance in the room, a silence, and she rose, looking at her father. But he, dim eyes brooding, lay back unconscious of all save memories awakened by her song. And presently she moved across the room to the veranda, stepping out into the moonlit garden–knowing perfectly well what she was doing, though her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and she heard the quick step on the gravel behind her.

She was busy with the long stem of the rose when he came up; she broke it short and straightened up, smiling a little greeting, for she could not have spoken for her life.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, under his breath.

Then the slow, clear words came, “I cannot.”

“I love you,” he said, as though he had not heard her. “There is nothing for me in life without you; from the moment you came into my life there was nothing else, nothing in heaven or earth but you–your loveliness, your beauty, your hair, your hands, the echo of your voice haunting me, the memory of your every step, your smile, the turn of your head–all that I love in you–and all that I worship–your sweetness, your loyalty, your bravery, your honor. Give me all this to guard, to adore–try to love me; forget my faults, forgive all that I lack. I know–I know what I am–what little I have to offer–but it is all that I am, all that I have. Constance! Constance! Must you refuse?”

“Did I refuse?” she faltered. “I don’t know why I did.”

With bare arm bent back and hand pressed over the hand that held her waist imprisoned, she looked up into his eyes. Then their lips met.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“Say it? Ah, I do say it: I love you–I love you. I said it years ago–when you were a boy and I wore muslin gowns above my knees. Did you think I had not guessed it?… And you told father to-night–you told him, because I never heard him laugh that way before…. And you are Jack–my boy that I loved when I was ten–my boy lover? Ah, Jack, I was never deceived.”

He drew her closer and lifted her flushed face. “I told your father–yes. And I told him that we would go South with him.”

“You–you dared assume that!–before I had consented!” she cried, exasperated.

“Why–why, I couldn’t contemplate anything else.”

Half laughing, half angry, she strained to release his arm, then desisted, breathless, gray eyes meeting his.

“No other man,” she breathed–“no other man–” There was a silence, then her arms crept up closer, encircling his neck. “There is no other man,” she sighed.