There came a little silence crowded with happy thoughts.

“At first, I thought you very dreadful,” she went on, looking up at him with a smile.  He could see her sweet face in the moonlight and was tempted to kiss it.

“Why?”

“You were so terrible,” she answered.  “Poor Joe Beach!  It seemed as if he would go through the wall.”

“Well, something had to happen to him,” said the teacher.

“He likes, you now, and every one likes you here.  I wish we could have you always for a teacher.”

“I’d be willing to be your teacher, always, if I could only teach you what you have taught me.”

“Oh, dancing,” said she, merrily; “that is nothing.  I’ll give you all the lessons you like.”

“No, I shall not let you teach me that again,” said he.

“Why?”

“Because your pretty feet trample on me.”

Then came another silence.

“Don’t you enjoy it?” she asked, looking off at the stars.

“Too much.” said he.  “First, I must teach you something—­if I can.”

He was ready for a query, if it came, but she put him off.

“I intend to be a grand lady,” said she, “and, if you do not learn, you’ll never be able to dance with me.”

“There’ll be others to dance with you,” said he.  “I have so much else to do.”

“Oh, you’re always thinking about algebra and arithmetic and those dreadful things,” said she.

“No, I’m thinking now of something very different.”

“Grammar, I suppose,” said she, looking down.

“Do you remember the conjugations?”

“Try me,” said she.

“Give me the first person singular, passive voice, present tense, of the verb to love.”

“I am loved,” was her answer, as she looked away.

“And don’t you know—­I love you,” said he, quickly.

“That is the active voice,” said she, turning with a smile.

“Polly,” said he, “I love you as I could love no other in the world.”

He drew her close, and she looked up at him very soberly.

“You love me?” she said in a half whisper.

“With all my heart,” he answered.  “I hope you will love me sometime.”

Their lips came together.

“I do not ask you, now, to say that you love me,” said the young man.  “You are young and do not know your own heart.”

She rose on tiptoe and fondly touched his cheek with her fingers.

“But I do love you,” she whispered.

“I thank God you have told me, but I shall ask you for no promise.  A year from now, then, dear, I shall ask you to promise that you will be my wife sometime.”

“Oh, let me promise now,” she whispered.

“Promise only that you will love me if you see none you love better.”

They were slowly nearing the door.  Suddenly she stopped, looking up at him.

“Are you sure you love me?” she asked.