It was almost dusk when they turned to go home, with their arms around each other, as if they were the First Two, wandering through the shaded groves of Paradise, before sin came into the world.
“Did you think it would be like this?” she asked, shyly.
“No, I didn't, darling. I thought it would be very prim and proper. I never dreamed you'd let me kiss you—yes, I did, too, but I thought it was too good to be true.”
“I had to—to let you,” she explained, crimsoning, “but nobody ever did before. I always thought—” Then Ruth hid her face against his shoulder, in maidenly shame.
When they came to the log across the path, they sat down, very close together. “You said we'd fight if we came here,” Ruth whispered.
“We're not going to, though. I want to tell you something, dear, and I haven't had the words for it till now.”
“What is it?” she asked, in alarm.
“It's only that I love you, Ruth,” he said, holding her closer, “and when I've said that, I've said all. It isn't an idle word; it's all my life that I give you, to do with as you will. It isn't anything that's apart from you, or ever could be; it's as much yours as your hands or eyes are. I didn't know it for a little while—that's because I was blind. To think that I should go up to see you, even that first day, without knowing you for my sweetheart—my wife!”
“No, don't draw away from me. You little wild bird, are you afraid of Love? It's the sweetest thing God ever let a man dream of, Ruth—there's nothing like it in all the world. Look up, Sweet Eyes, and say you love me!”
Ruth's head drooped, and he put his hand under her chin, turning her face toward him, but her eyes were downcast still. “Say it, darling,” he pleaded.