Certainly I am entitled to a new sobriquet.  As a youngster I was called “Socks Smith.”  In more recent years I have been hailed as “Foxy Old Smith,” and by a few friends as “Old Prog.  Smith,” but as I review my record for the past two months it seems to me that I am fairly entitled to be called “Lucky Smith.”

Of least importance, but none the less satisfying has been the wonderful improvement in my golf game.  I am driving as long a ball as any club member.  I have won the club championship and the Harding Trophy.  I hold the low amateur score for the course, and only yesterday came within a stroke of defeating Wallace.  I must admit that the poor chap was off his game.  He is still thinking of Miss Lawrence.  It’s a shame the way she led him on, but he is young and will get over it.

It was my privilege to be instrumental in saving Mr. Harding’s life from the mad rush of that bull.  I showed a little judgment and nerve, perhaps, but luck gave me the opportunity.

Every incident preceding, during and after that tornado was in my favour.  Even my mistakes resulted to my advantage.  Fate smiled on me through the awful fury of that tempest.

These fortuitous happenings and incidents are nothing compared with one consideration which makes me the happiest man in the world.  It is not that I made a lucky venture in stocks and acquired more millions than all of my ancestors ever possessed.  That is something, of course, but I had enough money for any rational human being before this flood of wealth poured into my lucky hands.

These are not the things which steep my soul in joy ineffable!

I know that I possess the love of Grace Harding!

She has not told me; it is not necessary that she shall say the words to confirm the truth which has come to me.  I know that she loves me; is not that enough?

Chilvers passed while I was sitting here and caught me smiling.  I was reading the sixteenth entry in this diary.

“What are you grinning at, Smith?” he demanded.

I did not tell him.  I had been reading my soliloquy to the effect that the knowledge of love is conveyed without verbal expression between those who love.  I had written:  “The man who fails to avail himself of this silent but eloquent language, and who stupidly assaults a woman with an open avowal of an alleged love deserves to be coldly rejected.”

Then I wrote that these voiceless messages to the one you love would be considered and finally answered, and that there might come a day “when over the throbbing unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding the letters ‘Y-E-S,’ then proceed with the sweet formality of a verbal confession and avowal of your love, and you will not be disappointed.”

I have received that glorious message!  Grace Harding has told me that she loves me!

The message was transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes!  It has been confirmed by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on my arm!  It has been echoed in the accents of her sweet voice!  I have read it in the blush which mantles her check as I draw near, and I know it from a thousand little tokens which my heart understands and which my feeble words cannot express.