Rodney was not to “offer himself” to Sylvie Argenter till the two years were over; he was to let her have her life and its chances; he was to prove himself, and show that he could earn and keep a little money; he was to lay by two thousand dollars.  This was what he had undertaken to do.  His father thought he had a right to demand these two years, even extending beyond the term of legal freedom, to offset the half-dozen of boyish, heedless extravagance, before he should put money into his son’s hands to begin responsible work with, or consent approvingly to his making of what might be only a youthful attraction, a tie to bind him solemnly and unalterably for life.

But the very stones cry out.  The meaning that is repressed from speech intensifies in all that is permitted.  You may keep two persons from being nominally “engaged,” but you cannot keep two hearts, by any mere silence, from finding each other out; and the inward betrothal in which they trust and wait,—­that is the most beautiful time of all.  The blessedness of acknowledgment, when it comes, is the blessedness of owning and looking back together upon what has already been.

Sylvie made a space for the white box upon a broad old bureau-top in her room.  She put its cover on again over the message in green cipher; she would only care to look at it on purpose, and once in a while; she would not keep it out to the fading light and soiling touch of every day.  She spread across the cover itself and its written sentence her last remaining broidered and laced handkerchief.  The wreath would dry, she knew; it must lose its first glossy freshness with which it had come from under the snows; but it should dry there where Rodney put it, and not a leaf should fall out of it and be lost.

She was happier in these subtle signs that revealed inward relation than she would have been just now in an outspokenness that demanded present, definite answer and acceptance of outward tie.  It might come to be:  who could tell?  But if she had been asked now to let it be, there would have been her troubles to give, with her affection.  How could she burden anybody doubly?  How could she fling all her needs and anxieties into the life of one she cared for?

There was a great deal for Sylvie to do between now and any marriage.  Her worry soon came back upon her with a dim fear, as the days passed on, touching the very secret hope and consciousness that she was happy in.  What might come to be her plain duty, now, very shortly?  Something, perhaps, that would change it all; that would make it seem strange and unsuitable for Rodney Sherrett ever to interpret that fair message into words.  Something that would put social distance between them.

Her mother, above all, must be cared for; and her mother’s money was so nearly gone!

Desire Ledwith was kind, but she must not live on anybody’s kindness.  As soon as she possibly could, she must find something to do.  There must be no delay, no lingering, after the little need there was of her here now, should cease.  Every day of willing waiting would be a day of dishonorable dependence.