t I?"

"I didn't believe you at the time," Harlan went on, eager to make amends,
"but I do now."

"That's good." Mrs. Carr's tone was not at all reassuring.

There was an awkward pause, then Harlan, putting aside his obstinate
pride, said the simple sentence which men of all ages have found it
hardest to say--perhaps because it is the sign of utter masculine
abasement. "I'm sorry, dear, will you forgive me?"

In a moment, she was in his arms. "It was partly my fault," she admitted,
generously, from the depths of his coat collar. "I think there must be
something in the atmosphere of the house. We never quarrelled before."

"And we never will again," answered Harlan, confidently. "What have you
been burning?"

"It was a mattress," whispered Dorothy, much ashamed. "I tried to get a
bed out, but it was too heavy."

"You funny, funny girl! How did you ever get a mattress out, all alone?"

"Dragged it to an upper window and dumped it," she explained, blushing,
"then came down and dragged it some more. Claudius Tiberius didn't like to
have me do it."

"I don't wonder," laughed Harlan. "That is," he added hastily, "he
couldn't have been pleased to see you doing it all by yourself. Anybody
would love to see a mattress burn."

"Shall we get some more? There are plenty."

"Let's not take all our pleasure at once," he suggested, with rare tact.
"One mattress a day--how'll that do?"

"We'll have it at night," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands, "and when the
mattresses are all gone, we'll do the beds and bureaus and the haircloth
furniture in the parlour. Oh, I do so love a bonfire!"

Harlan's heart grew strangely tender, for it had been this underlying
childishness in her that he had loved the most. She was stirring the ashes
now, with as much real pleasure as though she were five instead of
twenty-five.

As it happened, Harlan would have been saved a great deal of trouble if he
had followed out her suggestion and burned all of the beds in the house
except two or three, but the balance between foresight and retrospection
has seldom been exact.

"Beast of a smudge you're making," he commented, choking.

"Get around to the other side, then. Why, Harlan, what's that?"

"What's what?"

She pointed to a small metal box in the midst of the ashes.

"Poem on Spring, probably, put into the corner-stone by the builder of the
mattress."

"Don't be foolish," she said, with assumed severity. "Get me a pail of
water."