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Cynthia had been well brought up, but she came of rich, impatient stock, and never until the present moment had she thought very seriously about God. Now, however, when she saw the tenderness there was in G. G.’s eyes and the smile of serene joyousness that was upon his lips, she remembered the saying that God has made man–and boys–in His image–and understood what it meant.

She said: “I know why you think you’ve come.”

“Think?” he said. “Think!”

And then the middle ends of his eyebrows rose–all tender and quizzical; and with one mitten he clutched at his breast–just over his heart. And he said:

“If only I could get it out I would give it to you!”

Cynthia, too, began to look melting tender and wondrous quizzical; and she bent her right arm forward and plucked at its sleeve as if she were looking for something. Then, in a voice of dismay:

“Only three days ago it was still there,” she said; “and now it’s gone–I’ve lost it.”

“Oh!” said G. G. “You don’t suspect me of having purloined–” His voice broke.

“We’re only kids,” said Cynthia.

“Yes,” said he; “but you’re the dearest kid!”

“Since you’ve taken my heart,” said she, “you’ll not want to give it back, will you? I think that would break it.”

“I oughtn’t to have taken it!” said G. G.

And then on his face she saw the first shadow that ever he had let her see of doubt and of misgiving.

“Listen!” he said. “My darling! I think that I shall get well…. I think that, once I am well, I shall be able to work very hard. I have nothing. I love you so that I think even angels don’t want to do right more than I do. Is that anything to offer? Not very much.”

“Nobody in all the world,” said she, “will ever have the chance to offer me anything else–just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean that I don’t know the look of forever when I see it.”

“Is it really forever?” he said. “For you too?”

“For me–surely!”

“Ah,” said he, “what shall I think of to promise you?”

His face was a flash of ecstasy.

“You don’t even have to promise that you will get well,” she said. “I know you will try your hardest. No matter what happens–we’re final–and I shall stick to you always, and nothing shall take you from me, and nobody…. When I am of age I shall tell my papa about us and then we shall be married to each other! And meanwhile you shall write to me every day and I shall write to you three times every day!” Her breath came like white smoke between her parted lips and she stood valiant and sturdy in the snow–a strong, resolute girl, built like a boy–clean-cut, crystal-pure, and steel-true. A shot sounded and there came to them presently the pungent, acid smell of burnt powder.

“And we shall never hurt things or kill them,” said G. G. “And every day when I’ve been good I shall kiss your feet and your hands.”

“And when I’ve been good,” she said, “you’ll smile at me the way you’re smiling now–and it won’t be necessary to die and go to Heaven to see what the gentlemen angels look like.”

“But,” cried G. G., “whoever heard of going to Heaven? It comes to people. It’s here.”

“And for us,” she said, “it’s come to stay.”

All the young people came to the station to see Cynthia off and G. G. had to content himself with looking things at her. And then he went back to his room and undressed and went to bed. Because for a week he had done all sorts of things that he shouldn’t have done, just to be with Cynthia–all the last day he had had fever and it had been very hard for him to look like a joyous boy angel–he knew by experience that he was in for a “time.” It is better that we leave him behind closed doors with his doctors and his temperature. We may knock every morning and ask how he is, and we shall be told that he is no better. He was even delirious at times. And it is only worth while going into this setback of G. G’s because there are miracles connected with it–his daily letter to Cynthia.