car, the last car in the train. It was a heavenly day of blue sky
and sunshine; the desert was fresh from recent rain. And then a few,
dear, faltered words changed the desert into a garden that reached
to the rim of the world.

"I love you. I didn't mean to tell you quite yet, but I . . .
I . . ."

"I know. And it makes me so happy."

. . . . . .

You never saw anybody so delighted as Dad was when we told him.
"This makes me glad clear through," he said. "Blakely, boy, I
couldn't love you more if you were my own son. Elizabeth, girl, come
and kiss your old Daddy."

"And you aren't surprised, Dad?"

"Not a bit."

"He's known I've loved you, all along. Haven't you, Tom?"

"I may have suspected it."

"But I'm sure he never dreamed I could possibly care for you," I
said. And then, because I was too happy to do anything else, I went
to my state-room, and had a good cry.

I have read somewhere that Love would grow old were it not for the