The Professor sat very silent, looking about him. There was a grove
of birches on the hill, and the sunlight played upon their satin
boles.
"It feels good to be out again," he said calmly. "The Sage cannot
be so keen a lover of open air as his books would indicate, or he
wouldn't be so ready to clap a man into quod. Perhaps I owe him
another punch on the nose for that."
"Oh, Roger," I said--and I'm afraid my voice was trembly--"I'm
_sorry_. I'm _sorry_."
Not very eloquent, was it? And then, somehow or other, his arm was
around me.
"Helen," he said. "Will you marry me? I'm not rich, but I've saved
up enough to live on. We'll always have Parnassus, and this winter
we'll go and live in Brooklyn and write the book. And we'll travel
around with Peg, and preach the love of books and the love of human
beings. Helen--you're just what I need, God bless you. Will you come
with me and make me the happiest bookseller in the world?"
Peg must have been astonished at the length of time she had for
cropping the grass, undisturbed.
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