“I do not wonder that you love it.  And I am asking you to leave it!”

She looked up.  “Come, I want to show you some of the old things, the dear things, and then—­”

“We will come back, and you will tell me what I must know, Claudia?”

She nodded and pulled the bells from the lily-of-the-valley she held in her hands.  “We will come back and—­I will tell you.”

For an hour, in the soft glow of the sun now, sinking in the heavens, they wandered through the grounds and separate gardens of the old estate, now walking the length of the long avenue, shaded by great elms of more than century age, now around the lawn with its beds of bleeding-hearts and snowdrops, of wall-flowers and sweet-William, of hyacinths and tulips, with their borders of violets and cowslips, of candytuft and verbenas, and at the old sun-dial they stopped and read the hour.  Picking an armful of lilacs and calicanthus and snowballs and blue flags, planted in the days when the great trees were tiny saplings, they sent them in by Gabriel, who was following at a distance, blowing softly on his trumpet, and for some minutes stood in front of the house and watched the sun touch, here and there, the old brick laid in Flemish bond; then went back and sat down on the low seat under the big magnolia, from which the river could be glimpsed, and over which every now and then a white sail could be seen.

Behind them the sun sank.  The mass of shifting gold and blue and crimson and pale purple lost little by little its brilliant splendor, and slowly over land and sky soft twilight fell, and only here and there was heard the song and twitter of birds as they made ready for the night.

For a few moments there was silence, and then in his Laine held the hands of Claudia.

“It is a wonder world, this old, old world of yours with its many things we have forgotten.  And yet—­you will come to me?  You are sure at last, Claudia?”

“I am sure—­at last.”  She raised her eyes to his.  “I could not let you come until I knew that—­all the homes in all the world would not be home without—­”

“Without what, Claudia?”

“Without—­ Why do you make me tell you when you know?  You make me tell too much.”

“You cannot tell too much.  Claudia!  Claudia!”

Overhead the birds chirped sleepily and one by one the stars came out.  Presently Claudia drew herself away and smoothed her kissed and wind-blown hair.  “I am such a queer person.  I think you ought to know,” she said, and again her shining eyes were raised to his.  “There are a great many things I don’t care for, and I don’t think the way some people do about a good many other things.  I had to take long to be sure.”

“It was very cruel, Claudia.”  He lifted her face to his and smiled in the confessing eyes.  “My forgiveness proves the measure of my love.  As proof of penitence, will you marry me in June?”