hought of failing in his suit,
the more wretched became his condition of mind. The torrent of words that
he had come to speak slowly deserted his tongue until when Jane entered,
a quarter of an hour later, wreathed in smiles, he was dumb with terror.

"She's ever so much better than I expected to find her," began his sister
without preamble. "An' she was so glad to see me, poor soul! You can go up
now with the nurse; only don't stay too long."

"Did you tell her----" began the discomfited Martin.

"I didn't tell her anything," Jane replied, "except that I was going to
take her home with me in a day or two."

"Doesn't she know I'm here?"

"No."

"You don't know, then, whether she----"

"I don't know anything, Martin," Jane replied, nevertheless beaming on him
with a radiant smile. "An' if I did I certainly shouldn't tell you. You
an' Lucy must settle your affairs yourselves."

With this dubious encouragement and palpitating with uneasiness, Martin
was forced to tiptoe out of the room in the wake of his white-robed
conductor. As he walked down the long, quiet hall, he said to himself that
every step was bringing him nearer to the crisis when he must speak, and
still no words came to his lips. When, however, he turned from the
dinginess of the passageway into the sunny little room where Lucy lay, he
forgot everything but Lucy herself.

She was resting against the pillows, her hair unbound, and her cheeks
flushed to crimson. Never had she looked so beautiful. He stopped on the
threshold, awed by the wonder of her maidenhood. Then he heard her voice.

"Martin!"

It was only a single word, but the yearning in it told him all he sought
to know. In an instant he was on his knees beside her, kissing the brown
hand that rested on the coverlid, touching his lips to the glory of her
hair.

Jane, waiting in the meantime alone in the dull, whitewashed office, had
ample opportunity to study every nail in its floor, count the slats in the
slippery, varnished chairs, and speculate as to the identity of the
spectacled dignitaries whose portraits adorned the walls.

She planned her winter's wardrobe, decided what Mary, Eliza and herself
should wear at the wedding, and mentally arranged every detail of the
coming domestic upheaval. Having exhausted all these subjects, she began
in quite indecent fashion to select names for her future nieces and
nephews. The first boy should be Webster Howe. What a grand old name it
would be