At length he said:
"Jessie, where did you learn my name?"
She slipped her hand into her bosom and drew out a leaf torn from a pocketbook. It was his note of thanks for the refreshments she had sent to the hospital. It was signed, "Donald Sinclair."
"And where did you get mine, Donald?"
From an inner pocket close to his heart he brought out her note ending with the words: "From me. Jessie MacAllister."
"If it had not been for those four words, I do not think that I could ever have had the courage to tell you that I loved you."
"I'm so glad that I wrote them. I tried to end that note in formal fashion, but, before I knew, I had written those words. I sealed it in a hurry for fear I should think twice and change them." Her face was hidden against his breast now.... "And—I know you will think me silly—after the blue-jacket left, I ran out to call him back.... But I was too late."
"That's once I can thank God for a person's being late," he said, as he lifted her face to his own and kissed her again, but with more of the passion and abandon of love than before. And the wonder of it grew upon him. Over and over again he kept asking himself, Was this the proud young beauty of whom he had stood in awe? Was this blushing, tender girl yielding herself to his embraces and responding to his kisses,—was this the sprightly, mischievous belle of the dinner party who had teased him, and made game of him, and held him up to be laughed at by the assembled guests? It was almost incredible. But it was true. And the mystery of love deepened.
They were silent for a while. Thoughts were too busy and too happy for speech. Then she said:
"Donald, I know that this will sound awfully improper. But I do not want mother to know of what has taken place for some time. She would be so disappointed and angry that she would make rash statements. And afterwards, even if she were convinced that she had been wrong, she is so determined that she would not go back on them."