Part 29 (1/2)

She obeyed in silence.

An early frost had s.n.a.t.c.hed the glory from the trees, whose few brown and sere leaves hung disconsolately on the branches. High above them was an occasional skirmis.h.i.+ng line of wild ducks. The deep stillness was broken only by the scattering of nuts the scurrying squirrels were harvesting, by the cry of startled wood birds, or by the wistful note of a solitary, distant quail.

”Do you remember that other--that first day we came here?” he asked.

She glanced up at him quickly.

”Is this really the place where we came and you told me stories?”

”You were only six years old,” he reminded her. ”It doesn't seem possible that you should remember.”

”It was the first time I had ever been in any kind of woods,” she explained, ”and it was the first time I had ever played with a grown-up boy. For a long time afterward, when I teased mother for a story, she would tell me of 'The Day Carey Met David.'”

”And do you remember nothing more about that day?”

”Oh, yes; you made us some little chairs out of red sticks, and you drew me here in a cart.”

”Can't you remember when you first laid eyes on me?”

”No--yes, I remember. You drove a funny old horse, and I saw you coming when I was waiting at the gate.”

”Yes, you were at the gate,” he echoed, with a caressing note in his voice. ”You were dressed in white, as you are to-day, and that was my first glimpse of the little princess. And because she was the only one I had ever known, I thought of her for years as a princess of my imagination who had no real existence.”

”But afterwards,” she asked wistfully, ”you didn't think of me as an imaginary person, did you?”

”Yes; you were hardly a reality until--”

”Until the convention?” she asked disappointedly.

”No; before that. It was in South America, when I began to write my book, that you came to life and being in my thoughts. The tropical land, the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne, the purple nights, the white stars, the orchids, the balconies looking down upon fountained courts, all invoked you. You answered, and crept into my book, and while we--you and I--were writing it, it came to me suddenly and overwhelmingly that the little princess was a living, breathing person, a woman who mayhap would read my book some day and feel that it belonged to her. It was so truly hers that I did not think it necessary to write the dedication page. And she did read the book and she did know--didn't she?”

He looked down into her face, which had grown paler but infinitely more lovely.

”David, I didn't dare know. I wanted to think it was so.”

”Carey,” his voice came deep and strong, his eyes beseeching, ”we were prince and princess in that enchanted land of childish dreams. Will you make the dream a reality?”

”When, David,” she asked him, ”did you know that you loved, not the little princess, but me, Carey?”

”You make the right distinction in asking me when I _knew_ I loved you. I loved you always, but I didn't know that I loved you, or how much I loved you, until that night we sat before the fire at the Bradens'.”

”And, David, tell me what mother said that day after the parade?”

”She told me I had her consent to ask you--this!”

”And why, David, did you wait until to-day?”

”The knowledge that you were coming back here to Maplewood brought the wish to make a reality of another dream--to meet you at the place where I first saw you--to bring you here, where you clung to me for the protection that is henceforth always yours. And now, Carey, it is my turn to ask you a question. When did you first love me?”