“Mary”—­the man’s voice was earnest and very tender—­“Mary, I know that now you’re thinking about other things and they’re very sacred things.  Besides, my heart is overflowing and words don’t give it enough power of expression.  Since I fell in love with you life has been all poetry to me—­but not a poetry of words....  You are thinking of them—­” He paused and his sober eyes took in the headstones, lingering for a moment on this newest grave upon which the flowers were banked.  They were fine eyes, for in them dwelt an intrinsic honesty and courage, and, though it was a moment of deep gravity, the little wrinkles that ran out from them were assurances that they were often laughing eyes.  This man seemed to fit into the picture of the hills with the appropriateness of the native-born.  In his free-flung shoulders and broad chest was the health of the open, but on one finger he wore a heavily carved ring from which glowed the cool light of a large emerald, and in his scarf was a black pearl, which hardly seemed characteristic of native wear.  Then he went on: 

“But, after all, Mary, they lived good lives and died good deaths, and—­” he hesitated, then said slowly—­“and, after all, it’s June, and you and I are young.  Can’t it always be June for us, dear?”

A bird from a great oak lifted its voice.  It was a happy bird and would tolerate no sadness.  It caroled to its mate and to the sky and through her tears Mary Burton smiled and the gorgeous vividness of her face was illuminated.

“While we’ve got each other,” she said, “I guess it can be June.”

Suddenly she put out her slender, but strong, young hands and caught his two arms, and stood there looking at him.

“Once, dear,” she said, “when I was a very little girl, I used to dream of going out and seeing all the wonderful things beyond those hills.  I used to dream of having rich men and titled men come to me and make love.  I used to cry because I thought I was ugly—­and then I met you by the roadside—­and you were my fairy prince—­but I didn’t guess you were going to be my own—­for always.”

Jefferson Edwardes smiled and into his eyes came a fervent glow.

“I can see you now,” he said, “as you stood that first day I ever saw you, when I told you that your beauty would be the beauty of gorgeousness—­when I warned you that the only thing you need ever fear was—­the loss of your simplicity.  The woods were flaming at your back, but your loveliness outblazed their color, and then you were a thin little girl—­a trifle chippendale in plan.”

In spite of her sadness a smile came to her lips.

“And you were fighting your fight for life—­with only an even chance.  Suppose—­” she shuddered—­“suppose you had lost it!”

“I had too much to live for,” he assured her.  “I couldn’t lose it.  You and your hills gave me life and a dream, and you and your hills laid their claim upon me.  How could I lose?”