"Yes, you know—you must have long known that I love you, Clifford," she whispered.
He could not speak for the moment. He was white, even to his lips, with joy that was beyond words. He lifted her hands and laid them about his neck; then his arms slid around her graceful form and drew her to his breast, where he held her close—so close that she could both feel and hear the throbbing of his heart.
They stood thus for a few moments, speechless from the consciousness of the sacred union. At length Clifford gently released her and, fondly placing one hand beneath her chin, lifted her face and scanned it earnestly.
"Tears?" he said softly.
"Yes," said Mollie, with a shy, sweet laugh, "my cup is so full it cannot hold all my joy, and some had to brim over."
"Sweetheart!" he murmured, but he still continued to study her face with a look that seemed to have something of wonderment in it.
"Why do you look at me like that? Of what are you thinking?" Mollie inquired.
"I am wondering how it would have been with us if Mr. Heatherford had never lost his millions," said the young man reflectively.
"Clifford!" cried Mollie, in a tone of reproach, "you know I should have loved you just the same; but I am glad that I am poor, for I am awfully afraid if I had not been, you would have been too proud to tell me what you have told me to-night."
"Suppose such had been the case?" he smilingly questioned.