The two, white-clad, nimble figures flashed from side to side of the
court. He sprang into the air to meet her ball, and drove it into the
farthest corner, but she caught it with a backward gesture. Still he
was ready for it, cutting it low across the net,--yes, she was there,
she got it,--but the stroke was hard,--and the ball was light.

"Was it good?" she gasped, clasping the racquet in both hands and
tilting dangerously forward on tiptoe to look.

"Good enough,--and your game."

With one accord they ran forward to the net, pausing a second to glance
about enquiringly, and then, one impulse guiding, kissed each other
ecstatically.

"The very first time I have beaten you, David," exulted the girl.
"Isn't everything glorious?" she demanded, with all of youth's
enthusiasm.

"Just glorious," came the ready answer, with all of mature manhood's
response to girlish youth. Clasping the slender hands more tightly, he
added, laughing, "And I kiss the fingers that defeated me."

"Oh, David," the buoyant voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "I love
you,--I love you,--I--I am just crazy about you."

"Careful, Carol, remember the manse," he cautioned gaily.

"But this is honeymooning, and the manse hasn't gloomed on my horizon