my arms about you, and I should not let
you go until--until you had promised to be my wife."

"And I should not promise for at least an hour," said she, smiling,
as she turned, her dark eyes full of their new discovery. "Let us
go home."

"I'm going to be imperative," said he, "and you must answer before
I will let you go--"

"Dear Sidney," said she, "let's wait until we reach home. It's too
bad to spoil it here. But--" she whispered, looking about the
room, "you may kiss me once now."

"It's like a tale in _Harper's_," said he, presently. "It's 'to be
continued,' always, at the most exciting passage."

"I shall take the cars at one o'clock," said she, smiling. "But I
shall not allow you to go with me. You know the weird sisters."

"It would be impossible," said Trove. "I must get work somewhere;
my money is gone."

"Money!" said she, opening her purse. "I'm a Lady Bountiful.
Think of it--I've two hundred dollars here. Didn't you know Riley
Brooke cancelled the mortgage? Mother had saved this money for a
payment."

"Cancelled the mortgage!" said Trove.

"Yes, the dear old tinker repaired him, and now he's a new man.
I'll give you a job, Sidney."

"What to do?"

"Go and see the Governor, and then--and then you are to report to
me at Robin's Inn. Mind you, there's to be no delay, and I'll pay
you--let's see, I'll pay you a hundred dollars."

Trove began to laugh, and thought of this odd fulfilling of the
ancient promises.

"I shall stay to-night with a cousin at Burlington. Oh, there's
one more thing--you're to get a new suit of clothes at Albany, and,
remember, it must be very grand."

It was near train time, and they left the inn.

"I'm going to tell you everything," said she, as they were on their
way to the depot. "The day after to-morrow I am to see that
dreadful Roberts. I'm longing to give him his answer."

Not an hour before then Roberts had passed them on his way to
Boston.

XXXV

At the Sign of the Golden Spool[1]

[1 The author desires to say that this chapter relates to no shop
now in existence.]

It was early May and a bright morning in Hillsborough. There were
lines of stores and houses on either side of the main thoroughfare
from the river to Moosehead Inn, a long, low, white building that
faced the public square. Hunters coming off its veranda and gazing
down the street, as if sighting over gun-barrels at the bridge,
were wont to reckon the distance "nig