“But your handwriting—­” she murmured.

“Of course! of course!” said Dan Anderson.  He was lying beautifully now.  “But of course you know I’m left-handed, and my left arm got hurt a while ago, so I couldn’t use that hand.  I don’t suppose my handwriting did look quite natural to you.”

Her eyes were solemn but contented as she looked into his face, and saw that in spite of his words he was as much mystified as herself.  Slowly she presented to him the letter which he had never seen.  His face grew grave and tender as he read it line for line.

“It is mine!” he said.  “I wrote it.  I sent it.  I’ve sent it a thousand times to you before now, across the mountains.”

“Is it signed with your heart, Dan?” she whispered.

“With my heart—­yes, yes!”

“It is beautiful,” said she, simply.  And so they dropped between them the letter to the queen.  Hand in hand they stepped to the door, the room too small now to contain their happiness.

Two stumbling figures fleeing, pigeon-toed and sharp-heeled, on the further side of the arroyo meant much to Dan Anderson.  A laugh choked in his throat as he caught her once more in his arms.

“It looks like Willie had made good!” said Tom Osby to Curly, as he took a swift glance back over his shoulder.

But Constance and her lover had forgotten all the world, as they stepped out now into the glory of the twilight of Heart’s Desire.

“You remember,” said he—­“up there—­the other time?” He nodded toward the head of the arroyo, where lay the garden of the Littlest Girl.

“You broke my heart,” she murmured.  “I loved you, Dan.  What could I do?”

“Don’t!” he begged as he tightened his arm about her.  “I loved you, Constance—­what could I do?  We’ve been through the fire together.  It has all come right.  It’s all so beautiful.”

They stood together at the little garden spot.  Two brave red roses now blossomed there, and he plucked them both, pinning them at her throat with hands that trembled.  They turned and looked out over the little valley, and to them it seemed a golden cup overrunning with joy.

“Heart’s Desire,” he murmured, and once more his cheek rested against hers.

“Yes,” she whispered vaguely, “all, all—­your Heart’s Desire, I hope—­and mine—­mine.”

“It’s the world,” he murmured.  “It is the Beginning.  We are the very first.  Oh, Eve!  Eve!”