Then, when I would have given worlds for the power of speech, a strange,
dull silence came over me.

"Agatha," I said at last, "I came over today on purpose to see you. I
want to ask you something, a favor so great my lips can hardly frame the
words."

She looked at me. There was infinite wonder, infinite gentleness in her
eyes. I took courage then, and told my tale in burning words. I cannot
remember now, but I told her how I had loved her from the first moment I
had ever seen her, and had resolved upon winning her, if she was to be
won.

Never mind what passed. I only know the sun never shone so brightly, the
flowers were never one-half so fair, the world so bright, no man ever
one-half so happy.

For she--well, she had listened to me, and her sweet lips quivered, her
beautiful face had grown tender and soft; she laid her little, white
hands in mine and said she loved me.

I have wondered since that the weight of my own happiness did not break
my heart, the suspense had been so great.

"You love me? Say it again, Agatha. I cannot believe it. Oh, my darling,
it seemed to me easier to reach the golden stars than to win you!"

"You did not try," she said, with a smile half sweet, half divine. "You
always looked frightened at me."