sorts and kinds and conditions and complexions of men:  any one of whom I might wake up some day and find myself married to:  and I don’t know which one!  It delights and terrifies and fascinates and amuses and puzzles me when I begin to think about it.  Here I’ve got to marry Somebody and I don’t know any more than Adam’s housecat who and where that Somebody is, and he might pop from around the corner at me, any minute!  It makes the thing so much more interesting, so much more like a big risky game of guess, when you don’t know, don’t you think?”

“No:  it makes you miserable,” said Laurence, briefly.

“But I’m not miserable at all!”

“You’re not, because you don’t have to be.  But I am!”

“You?  Why, Laurence!  Why should you be miserable?” Her voice lost its blithe lightness; it was a little faint.  She said hastily, without waiting for his reply:  “I guess I’d better run in.  It was silly of me to walk to the gate with you at this hour.  I think Madame’s calling me.  Goodnight, Laurence.”

“No, you don’t,” said he.  “And it wasn’t silly of you to come, either; it was dear and delightful, and I prayed the Lord to put the notion into your darling head, and He did it.  And now you’re here you don’t budge from this spot until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.

“Mary Virginia, I reckon you’re just about the most beautiful girl in the world.  You’ve been run after and courted and flattered and followed until it was enough to turn any girl’s head, and it would have turned any girl’s head but yours.  You could say to almost any man alive, Come, and he’d come—­oh, yes, he’d come quick.  You’ve got the earth to pick and choose from—­but I’m asking you to pick and choose me.  I haven’t got as much to offer you as I shall have some of these days, but I’ve got me myself, body and brain and heart and soul, sound to the core, and all of me yours, and I think that counts most, if you care as I do.  Mary Virginia, will you marry me?”

“Oh, but, Laurence!  Why—­Laurence—­I—­indeed, I didn’t know—­I didn’t think—­” stammered the girl.  “At least, I didn’t dream you cared—­like that.”

“Didn’t you?  Well, all I can say is, you’ve been mighty blind, then.  For I do care.  I guess I’ve always cared like that, only, somehow, it’s taken this one short winter to drive home what I’d been learning all my life?” said he, soberly.  “I reckon I’ve been just like other fool-boys, Mary Virginia.  That is, I spooned a bit around every good looking girl I ran up against, but I soon found out it wasn’t the real thing, and I quit.  Something in me knew all along I belonged to somebody else.  To you.  I believe now—­Mary Virginia, I believe with all my heart—­that I cared for you when you were squalling in your cradle.”

“Oh! ...  Did I squall, really?”

“Squall? Sometimes it was tummy and sometimes it was temper.  Between them you yelled like a Comanche,” said this astonishing lover.