April now was drawing on toward May; and after the dance, the first within its walls for years, life in the Beeston house resumed itself much as it had been before. The family, at the end of a fortnight, was to go out to the Beeston place on Long Island and once they were there settled for the summer, David meant to announce the engagement. Meanwhile Bab's mind was so full of it that there was little room there for anything else.

Her decision to marry David had changed her mental attitude entirely. With the past and its events she was determined she would not distress herself. In this she included Varick. She no longer pondered, either, those happenings, still unexplained, that so long had bewildered her. It was to the future she looked. Varick had gone out of her life. David was the one she must think about.

The days slipped by, every one, it seemed to Bab, fuller for her than the one before. And it was to David that all this was due. There was not an hour when his every thought, every consideration, was not directed toward her. Bab vividly perceived the depth of his feeling for her.

In the time that preceded the departure for Long Island a feverish happiness seemed to animate him. He hovered about her as if he resented the loss even of a single moment of her company, and Bab was far from objecting to this. David's companionship always had allured her; his thoughtfulness, his consideration must have endeared him to anyone. Besides, David's happiness somehow was infectious. When she was with him her spirits leaped contagiously. More and more in those few days Bab learned to appreciate how companionable he really was.

There was about him, too, a gentleness and understanding that were in themselves subtly comforting to her. David, in spite of his deep-rooted feeling for her, seemed ever fearful of alarming her. In the same way, though eager to have every moment with her, he was careful never to obtrude himself.

"I mustn't bore you," he said once.

"Bore me? Why, you never do," Bab returned; and with a quick comprehension she laid her hand on his. A light at the touch leaped into David's eyes. Instantly, however, he controlled it.

"I'm glad," he answered simply.

Day by day he hovered about her. Even when Bab was alone, she had but to call, or dispatch a servant for him, to have him instantly respond. It was as if he were constantly on guard, watching over her. David might be a cripple; but the woman he loved could not have asked for a more able knight, nor one more generous. Bab eventually had to call a halt to his prodigality. There were flowers every morning, books, candies, what not. Then one night—it was just a week after the dance—David, his face radiant, tapped on the door of her sitting-room. He had one hand held behind him.

"Guess what's in it," he proposed.

The day before he had suggested giving her a motor, a small, smart landaulet of a type she had casually admired; but this plan instantly had been squelched. What need had she of a motor when her "grandfather" had at least five? However, what David now held behind him was manifestly not a town landaulet. But it might be the order for one.

"Look here," said Bab; "have you been silly enough——"

With a shake of his head, his eyes glowing, he interrupted her.

"Guess, can't you?" he persisted.

Then when she couldn't he came a step closer to her.

"Look," he said, and suddenly opened his hand.

In it lay a ring, a single diamond set on a platinum band. It was not a huge stone, ostentatious and vulgar; but one whose water was as translucent as a drop of dew. As she beheld it Bab caught her breath.

"For me!" she cried.

David nodded. In his hand was a chain, too, a finely woven thread of gold. "Till we've told them," he said, his voice low, "wear it round your neck, Bab."

Her breath came swiftly through parted lips. Beeston's pearl, worth five times David's gift, had not begun to thrill her so. It was the significance of the ring, all it conveyed, that now made her heart leap and the color pour into her face.

The following Saturday the family, bag and baggage, moved to Long Island. Half the servants, Crabbe in charge, already were established there; and Saturday afternoon, sometime after luncheon, Beeston and Miss Elvira were to follow. The run to Eastbourne was short—not more than an hour; and they were to take the limousine. Bab and David, however, elected to leave earlier. Just after breakfast David's roadster was brought round to the door.

The morning was brilliant, a burst of sunlight glorifying even that ugly neighborhood, the street lined with its rows of brownstone fronts. The air, too, was animating. May was at hand, but the morning in spite of that had a tang like October. Bab wisely had tucked herself in furs, a muff and scarf of silver fox. At the curb she found David already waiting in his motor.

The roadster, a powerful machine, glittered with varnish and brightly polished metal. David never looked better than when he was seated at its wheel. As Bab came down the steps, smart in her furs and her fetching little toque and fashionably cut tweeds, a quick smile lighted his face. Certainly his features were attractive. Though he was not handsome, there was about him a look of high-bred, clean-cut manliness—an expression thoroughly appealing to women. As the chauffeur, having tucked a rug about Bab, climbed to his seat in the rumble, David bent swiftly toward her.

"Bab, you're beautiful!" he whispered.

The arm pressed against hers she could feel tremble with his feeling. Then, its engine purring softly, the car shot forward. Their way lay eastward. Taking to a cross-town bystreet, they were soon at the bridge, the broad reach of river below leaping in the crisp sunlight like silver. In the distance far below a long, narrow power yacht slipped past like a missile. "Look!" cried Bab. Her animation grew bubbling. Bending forward, her muff tucked beneath her chin, she looked about her with eyes glowing. Everything interested her. After the yacht it was a tug shrouded in steam and buffeting its way along that caught her exuberant notice. How delightful was the morning air! How the sunlight got into one's spirits! Bab laughed and chattered exhilarantly. David, too, laughed and chatted with her.

Before long they left the river behind them; and rolling out of the last dingy street that lay upon the way, they came presently to the country. In the lush, fresh coloring of its fields and of the low hills that lay hazy in the distance they found a new exhilaration. Time sped forgotten. Engrossed in one another, they considered little else.

The morning by now was well advanced, and as they forged along the broad, level highroad they began to meet the stream of motors that every day heads cityward from the big Long Island country places. David, as the roadster neared Eastbourne, began nodding to the occupants of the big limousines, the big touring cars and the smart, powerful motors like theirs that passed them. Each time he did so he was at pains to mention their names to Bab. And they were names, too, that would have thrilled the ordinary mortal, the man in the street. Bab herself was thrilled that David knew many of them. It pleased her that some of them, a few, she knew too. Most gratifying of all, though, was the interest with which David's acquaintances gazed at her. She wondered that often these looks were pointed. Was it because she was the Beeston heiress? Was it that alone, or had they guessed the truth about her and David? Plunged in this reverie, delightful to her with all the fancies it evoked, its dreams of place and power, she did not notice that as her chatter had subsided David's animation had risen correspondingly. All his life Long Island had been his playground, and hereabout there was hardly a stone, a tree, a hedge that was not familiar to him, filled with reminiscence. Then all at once his animation waned. As they topped the rise that led down to the Eastbourne plains he brought the car to a standstill.

"Look!" he said.

Bab had never seen Byewolde, the Beeston summer place. In the rush of life during the few months she had been a member of the household there had been no opportunity. Now, however, as she looked across the open lowland to the wooded slope it crowned, she knew the house instantly.

Ten minutes later the roadster, after a burst of speed that gave Bab the impression that she was being borne through the air on rushing wings, came to a halt under Byewolde's high Doris porch.

"Sit still, Bab," said David; then he turned to the chauffeur. "That's all, Gaffney," he directed; "I won't need you now." To Crabbe who, deferent, all eagerness, had come hurrying to the door, David bade a pleasant good morning. "Luncheon at one, Crabbe—just for us two, you understand. We'll be back."

Then he threw in the clutch, and the car shot out again from under the tall white porch. Bab said nothing. Awakened abruptly from the pensive reverie in which she had been plunged, she had seen instantly that there was some purpose behind David's quick, energetic manner. What the purpose was, though, she did not know or particularly care. His plans might be anything, she would be lazily in accord with them. The day, the leaping sunshine, the swift exhilaration of the ride and David's deferent, tender attention—all had been to her a subtle balm. She sat back in her cushioned seat, her chin tucked luxuriously in the soft deep pelage of her muff, indolent mentally and physically, her eyes lazily wandering over the view. It was the first time in days she had felt at peace with herself and her surroundings. It mattered little to her that inertness really was the reason for that peace. She was content not to think.

Byewolde, as such places go, was not vast perhaps. Its charm, instead, lay in its well-planned variety. The house, Colonial in type, stood facing a wide sweep of lawn, a stretch of rolling turf as soft and closely cropped as velvet. At one side of the house was a terrace hedged with box and evergreen; beyond that a sunken garden. A deep, dimpling pool lay at the garden's end, the depth sapphire with the reflection of the skies; and before it was a Roman marble garden seat, its snowy whiteness standing out against the carpet of turf, the bronze green background of the hedges. Bab's eyes lighted as the motor, turning out of the drive, headed down a byroad that led along the garden's side. Over the hedge she got a swift glimpse of its quiet, secluded charm. Then the road plunged of a sudden into a wood. Oaks, maples, elms, some of them huge, wove the lacelike tracery of their leaves and branches in a close network overhead, so that for a space the motor rolled onward through a tunnel of greenery. In its close, cloistered quiet one might have been miles from any habitation. The sunlight trickling through the latticed foliage overhead lit the wood's dim vistas with a mellow gleam, like light from a cathedral glass; and a hush fell upon Bab and David.

The motor, slowing down, purred softly, like some huge insect—a denizen of the wood. David touched Bab upon the arm. Along a sunlit opening a herd of deer slipped silently into view. Almost instantly they were gone, like wraiths dissolving into the wall of the foliage that enframed them. A thrush, somewhere hidden in that dim, bosky depth, of a sudden burst into a throb of song.

"Like it?" asked David, and Bab drew in her breath.

"It's wonderful!" she exclaimed.

He was silent for a moment, looking about him. Then, his tone deliberate, he said to her: "Grandfather's given me this. Before we owned it I used to come here. Then one day he bought it and gave me the deed. It was a birthday present."

Bab looked about her again. All this a birthday present! She would perhaps have been even more impressed had she known something of Long Island values. There were a thousand acres in that wood.

Of the Byewolde estate, however, the wood was but a minor part. The Beeston town house gave to the uninitiated no indication of the wealth of the owner, for it differed little from a hundred others in the neighborhood. Here, however, not even the most ignorant could err as to the money required to maintain such an establishment. As the motor, rolling on, threaded the roads that led from one quarter of Byewolde to the other, Bab herself grew impressed with it.

David was particular that she should see it all. There was not a view he did not point out to her; there was not a nook, a corner in all that domain he was not eager to have her discover. And it was all well worth seeing. A show place even in that countryside where wealth is a commonplace, Byewolde was the envy of its neighbors. Nothing mediocre, one saw clearly, would do for Beeston. The cattle standing knee-deep in the lush pasturage were prize stock; the horses gazing over the fences at the passing motor were blooded animals; the gardens and greenhouses, these last under their acreage of glass, were splendid with their array of exotic flowers and foliage. David, alighting, led the way among them. The orchids, the roses, the long beds of lilies, violets, carnations—all these he showed her in turn. There was one house filled entirely with palms and ferns; there was a grapery, too, where at any season great clusters of grapes, deep with their purple bloom, were forced into luscious ripeness.

As he led her from one to another of Byewolde's wonders, Bab again grew conscious that behind his animation, the exhilarant eagerness he showed, David had some purpose. His air again grew feverish. The gardener, an elderly Scotchman, hobbled along after them, dilating proudly on these flowers to which his life had been devoted. David and he long had been cronies, Bab discovered. It was "Maister Davvy" this and "Maister Davvy" that. He seemed hardly aware of Bab; all his attention he devoted to the young man, his master. On one occasion, though, there came near to being a misunderstanding between those two—on one side David, gay, animated; on the other the Scotchman, old and dour, his soul wrapped in the flowers that had been his life. Bab's attention was called by a sudden exclamation from the old man.

"Oh, Maister Davvy!" he cried in consternation.

They had been standing before one of the orchids, a bronzelike exotic on which a single bloom, a flower with strange pale lilac and green petals, had just burst forth. Bab, filled with admiration, had exclaimed at its beauty, and David had plucked it from the plant.

At the old gardener's evident dismay he laughed lightly.

"What's the difference, McNare? Here, Bab," he said, and handed her the flower. "Pin it on your waist."

McNare's distress still persisted.

"Ye've pluckit it, my orchid!" he cried. "Yon's the Sanctu, Maister Davvy; 'twull be the prize of a'!"

But David only laughed again. If a prize it would be fit, then, for a lady to wear. It was fortunate McNare had it ready to pick. At this point, however, with quick understanding he detected something in the old gardener's expression, and his bantering ceased. The ancient face had grown grayer, more furrowed.

"It was my bairn!" said McNare. "It was the apple o' my eye! I'd gi'ed it a year and more's care." He drew the back of one horny hand across his eyes.

"McNare!" cried David contritely.

Bab turned away as David impulsively put a hand on the old gardener's shoulder. That was like David. He would not for the world have hurt another.

A shadow seemed to have fallen on his spirit when he rejoined her. He was repressed, less eager, less animatedly talkative. He pointed to the flower in her hand.

"You don't want that, Bab," he said suddenly. "Throw it away."

Throw away the blossom which before the calamity McNare had said was priceless! Bab hesitated, but David insisted on it.

"It's blighted, Bab. You mustn't have about you anything that isn't all suggestive of happiness. Not today certainly, and never if I can help it."

She gazed at him with softened, thoughtful eyes. It was some time before David regained his spirits. From the greenhouses he took her through Byewolde's stables, past rows of stalls and boxes where a dozen or more tenants lived in pampered luxury. The coachman, a ruddy-faced, beefy gentleman of the old school, kicked a foot out behind him as he touched his hat to David and Bab. He, too, like McNare, was an old-time servitor in that house; and with a bustling anxiety to serve and to please he kept the three stable grooms on the jump, parading his charges before the visitors. The sleek, satiny-coated animals—cobs, coach horses, and finally a pair of thoroughbred hunters—Bab could have admired interminably. Just then, however, a bell in the near-by farm began to clang.

"One o'clock," David announced. "Crabbe will worry unless we make haste!"

So Bab regretfully climbed back into the motor. A moment later they dashed up under the high Doric portico again. She and David lunched alone. In the big, low-ceiled dining-room, rich with its hangings and its paneling of mahogany, bright with the array of silver and cut glass on table and sideboard, Crabbe served them with soft-footed, silent deference. At the end of the room the French windows stood open, and from her place at the head of the table, ensconced behind the massive Beeston tea service, Bab looked out, first on a long stretch of velvety lawn, then at its background, the wall of evergreens that guarded the sunken garden. The sunlight of that perfect day still shone upon it. Allured by all this, she sat gazing on the prospect dreamy-eyed. How delightful it all was! How splendid! And to think that once, a few months before, she had been a nobody, a little waif in a boarding house! Bab herself hardly could believe it. A deep breath escaped her.

"David, isn't it wonderful!" she murmured.

David, as she spoke, awoke abruptly from a reverie.

"Wonderful!" he agreed as he looked up at her. Then he comprehended. "You mean all this, don't you?" he asked.

Bab nodded and, his eyes fixed on hers, David for a moment sat silent. The luncheon had been served, and Crabbe at a signal from him had left the room. In the brief interval that David sat gazing at her, Bab saw a change come over him. Again his eyes brightened, deepening with animation. Again she saw dawn in them the look of purpose she had seen there that morning. Pushing back his chair, he arose, and with a hand on the table to support him he came slowly toward her. Bab's eyes fell. Never before had she felt herself so alone with him—with anyone, for that matter. Had this been their wedding day, their first few moments together, she could not have felt more conscious. The color crowded into her face. She dared not look up now. Then as she sat there, her eyes lowered, she felt David's hand slip beneath her chin.

"Look up, Bab!" he whispered. She obeyed awkwardly. His eyes, she noticed, had grown very serious. "Listen, dear," said David. "All that I've shown you I showed you with a purpose. I wanted you to know that some day it all will be mine—you understand, don't you—ours, Bab, yours and mine! That's why I showed it to you!" Then she felt the hand that held her face up to his tighten. "Remember," he added, "it's yours—ours—Bab, no matter what happens! What's mine will always be yours. You understand?"

Bab was looking up at him with parted lips.

"Yes," she murmured wonderingly.

"Yours and mine! That's why I showed it to you, Bab!" And then, "I love you! I love you!" he whispered.