“Why, yes—­I will—­” she answered confusedly.  Martie called her thanks over her shoulder as they walked away.  She was reminded of the day she had called on John at his office.

Quick and shaken, the beating of her heart bewildered her; she hardly knew where they walked, or how they began to talk.  The velvety summer night was sweet with flowers; the moon would be late, but the sky was high and dark, and thick with stars.  In the silver glimmer the town lights, and the dim eye of the dairy, far up on the range, burned red.  Children were shouting somewhere, and dogs barking; now and then the other mingled noises were cut across by the clear, mellow note of a motor car’s horn.

They came to the lumber-yard by the river, and went in among the shadowy piles of planks.  The starry dome was arched, infinitely far and yet friendly, above them; the air here was redolent of the clean wood.  From houses near by, but out of sight beyond the high wall, they heard occasional voices:  a child was called, a wire-door slammed.  But they were alone.

John was instantly all the acknowledged if not the accepted lover.  Once fairly inside the fence, she found her heart beating madly against his own; as tall as he, she tried to deny him her lips.  Her arms were pinioned.  Man and woman breathed fast.

“Martie—­my wonderful—­my beautiful—­girl!  I never lived until now!” he said after a silence.

“But, John—­John—­” He had taken her off her guard; she was stammering like a school-girl.  “Please, dear, you mustn’t—­not now.  I want to talk to you—­I must.  Won’t you wait until we have had a talk—­please—­you’re frightening me!”

His hold was instantly loosed.

“My dearest child, I wouldn’t frighten you for anything in the world.  Let us have the talk—­here, climb up here!  It was only—­ realizing—­what I’ve been dreaming about all these months!  I’m flesh and blood, you know, dear.  I shall not feel myself alive—­you know that!—­until you are in my arms, my own—­my wife.”

She had seated herself on the top of the pile; now he sat on the ledge that was a few inches lower, and laid his arms across her knees, so that his hands were clasped in both her own.  Her senses were swimming, her heart itself seemed turned to liquid fire, and ran trembling through her body.

“My wife!” John said, eager eyes fairly devouring her.  “My glorious wife, the loveliest woman in the world!  Do you know what it means, Martie?  Do you know what it means, after what we both have known?”

The sight of his wistful, daring smile in the starlight, the touch of his big, eager hands, and the sound of the odd, haunting voice turned the words to magic.  She tightened her fingers on his.

“I bought the Connecticut house on the river,” he said presently.  “It belonged to a carpenter, a fine fellow; but the railroad doesn’t go there, and he and his wife wanted to go to a bigger place.  Silver and I went up and saw it, but I didn’t want to do anything until you came.  But there are rocks, you know—­” Hearing something between a laugh and a sigh, he stopped short.  “Rocks,” he repeated, “you know all those places are rocky!”