“Where is it, dear?” she whispered.
He laughed joyfully. “It's here!” he said. “About eight miles or so out, up by the mountains; has a little canyon of its own—its own little stream and reservoir. Oh, my darling! My darling!”
They sat in happy silence in the perfumed night. The strong arms were around her, the big shoulder to lean on, the dear voice to call her “little girl.”
The year of separation vanished from their thoughts, and the long years of companionship opened bright and glorious before them.
“I came this afternoon,” he said at length, “but I saw another man coming. He got here first. I thought—”
“Ross! You didn't! And you've left me to go without you all these hours!”
“He looked so confident when he went away that I was jealous,” Ross admitted, “furiously jealous. And then your mother was here, and then those cackling girls. I wanted you—alone.”
And then he had her, alone, for other quiet, happy moments. She was so glad of him. Her hold upon his hand, upon his coat, was tight.
“I don't know how I've lived without you,” she said softly.
“Nor I,” said he. “I haven't lived. It isn't life—without you. Well, dearest, it needn't be much longer. We closed the deal this afternoon. I came down here to see the place, and—incidentally—to see you!”