“What a magnificent night,” remarked Kingman.
“Too beautiful to sleep,” returned Irene.
“For what, then, is it made?”
“For meditation and devotion.”
“And love!” added Kingman, pressing the girl impulsively to him. “It is now three years since I first asked you to be my bonny wife, Irene. You did not refuse me, but thought you were too young, and I waited another year before I asked you. You made the same answer the second time, and I have now waited two long years without making the slightest reference to it. We are both older, and I trust I am wiser now. Irene, will you be my wife?”
“I guess I am too old now.”
Kingman looked down into the face resting upon his shoulder, for he did not know the meaning of the words—but it was not dark enough to conceal the roguish twinkle of her eyes.
“Don’t you think I am getting too old?” she asked, reaching up and brushing the hair from his forehead.
“Well, you are rather old, that’s a fact—older than I ever knew you to be before—‘but better late than never,’ you know.”
“Then it matters little how late it is—so suppose we wait a few years longer yet.”