id Sandy Rowl, "is named in that telegram.
I'm sure of it."

Tommy Lark nodded.

"I knows it," Sandy proceeded, "because I seed a flicker in the
woman's eye when she learned the two names of us. She's a sly one,
that young woman!"

"Ay."

"You is chosen, Tommy."

"No, 'tis not I. 'Tis you. You is selected, Sandy. The woman twinkled
when she named you. I marked it t' my sorrow."

"The maid would not choose me, Tommy," Sandy replied, his face awry
with a triumphant smile, "when she might have you."

"She've done it."

In advance, on the path to the crest of Black Cliff, Tommy Lark was
downcast and grim. Of a faithful, kindly nature in respect to his
dealings with others, and hopeful for them all, and quick with an
inspiring praise and encouragement, he could discover no virtue in
himself, nor had he any compassion when he phrased the chapters of his
own future; and though he was vigorous and decisive in action, not
deterred by the gloom of any prospect, he was of a gray, hopeless mind
in a crisis.

Rowl, however, was of a saucy, sanguine temperament; his faith in his
own deserving was never diminished by discouragement; nor, whatever
his lips might say, was he inclined to foresee in his future any
unhappy turn of fortune. The telegraph operator, he was persuaded, had
disclosed an understanding of the situation in a twinkle of her blue
eyes and an amused twist of her thin lips; and the twinkle and the
twist had indicated the presence of his name in Elizabeth Luke's
telegram. Rowl was uplifted--triumphant.

In the wake of Tommy Lark he grinned, his teeth bare with delight and
triumph. And as for Tommy Lark, he plodded on, striving grimly up the
hill, his mind sure of its gloomy inference, his heart wrenched, his
purpose resolved upon a worthy course of feeling and conduct. Let the
dear maid have her way! She had chosen her happiness. And with that a
good man must be content.

* * * * *

In the courtship of pretty Elizabeth Luke, Tommy Lark had acted
directly, bluntly, impetuously, according to his nature. And he had
been forehanded with his declaration. It was known to him that Sandy
Rowl was pressing the same pursuit to a swift conclusion. Tommy Lark
loved the maid. He had told her so with indiscreet precipitation; and
into her confusion he had flung the momentous question.

"Maid," said he, "I loves you! Will you wed me?"

Sandy Rowl, being of a more subtle way in all thi