“No, no!”

She turned away her head, but his arms enfolded her; he bent down and kissed her forehead, her eyes, and her lips last of all.

“Yes; here and now.  Unless you say you don’t care for me, that you don’t love me.  If you say those things I shall go away.”

She did not say them.  She clung to him and looked long into his face, and kissed him.

Harwood had chosen the hour well.  Sylvia had met bravely the great crisis of her life, and had stood triumphant and satisfied, weary but content in the clear ether to which she had climbed; but it was a relief to yield herself at last to the sway of emotions long checked and stifled.  Save for her grandfather’s devoted kindness, and the friendship of Mrs. Owen, her experiences of affection had been singularly meagre.  She had resolved that if Dan should speak of love again she would be strong enough to resist him; but she had yielded unhesitatingly at a word.  And it was inexpressibly sweet to yield, to feel his strong arms clasping her, to hear his protestations and assurances, to know that her life had found shelter and protection.  She knew that she had never questioned or doubted, but that her faith had grown with her love for him.  Not only had he chosen the hour well, but there was a fitness in his choice of place.  The familiar scene emphasized her sense of dependence upon him and gave a sweet poignancy to the memories of her childhood and youth that were enshrined within the cottage walls.  In this room, in the garden outside, on the campus across the Lane, she had known the first tremulous wonderings and had heard the first whispered answers to life’s riddles and enigmas; and now she knew that in Love lives the answer to all things.

After a little she rested her hands on his shoulders, half-clinging to him, half-repelling him, and he pressed his hands upon her cheeks, to be ready for the question he had read in her eyes.

“But,” she faltered, “there are things I have promised to do for Aunt Sally; we shall have to wait a long time!”

“Not for Aunt Sally,” he cried happily.  “Here she is at the door now.  I left her and John Ware at Dr. Wandless’s.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, advancing into the room and throwing open her coat.  “You said you meant to get back to the city in time to catch that limited for New York, and you haven’t got much margin, Daniel, I can tell you that!”

* * * * *

It seemed to the people who heard of it afterward a most romantic marriage, that of Sylvia and Dan Harwood; but whatever view we may take of this, it was certainly of all weddings the simplest.  They stood there before the mantel above which still hung the broken half of a ship’s wheel.  Mrs. Owen, very tall and gaunt, was at one side, and Dr. Wandless at the other; and old Mary, abashed and bewildered, looked on with dilated eyes and crossed herself at intervals.