“Now!” she said to Wally, and they started on their ride.  And, oh, but that was a ride!

The afternoon was perfect, the sun warm but not hot, the air crystal clear.  It had showered the night before and the world, in its spring dress, looked as though it had been washed and spruced for their approval.

“All roses and lilies!” laughed Wally.  “That’s how I like life!”

They went along hillsides and looked down into the beautiful valleys; they wound around by the sides of rivers and through deep woods; they went like the wind; they loafed; they explored country lanes and lost their way, stopped at a farm-house and found it again, shouted with delight when a squirrel tried to race them along the top of a fence, gasped together when they nearly ran over a turkey, chatted, laughed, sang (though this was a solo, for Mary couldn’t sing, though she tried now and then under her breath), and with every mile they rode they seemed to pass invisible milestones along the road which leads from friendship to love.

It came to a crisis two weeks later, on an afternoon in June.

Mary was in the garden picking a bouquet for the table, and Wally went to help her.  She gave him a smile that made his heart do a trick, and when he bent over to help her break a piece of mignonette, his hand touched hers....

“Mary....” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Do you love me a little bit now?”

“I wonder....” said she, and they both bent over to pick another piece of mignonette.  Away down deep in Mary, a voice whispered, “Somebody’s watching.”  She looked toward the house and caught sight of Helen who was sitting sideways on the veranda rail and missing never a move.

Wally followed Mary’s glance.

“She’ll be down here in a minute,” he frowned to himself.  At the bottom of the lawn, overlooking the valley, was a summer house of rustic cedar, nearly covered with honeysuckle.

“Let’s take a stroll down there, shall we?” he asked.

The tremor of his voice told Mary more than his words.

“He wants to love me,” she thought, and burying her face in her bouquet she said in a muffled little voice, “...I don’t care.”

They went down to the summer house, talking, trying to appear indifferent, but both of them knowing that a truly tremendous moment in their drama of life was close at hand.

They seated themselves opposite each other on the bench and Mary’s dreamy eyes went out over the valley.

“Mary....” he began.  She looked at him for a moment and then her glance went out over the valley again.

“Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?” he gently asked.

But Mary’s eyes were still upon the valley below.

“In a way, I’m glad you’ve waited,” he said.  “Judge Cutler told me some of the wonderful things you did here during the war.  But you don’t want to be bothering with a factory as long as you live.  It’s grubby, narrow work, and there’s so much else in life, so much that’s beautiful and—­and wonderful—­”