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 238 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?”