me in, child, and shut the world out." Then, leading the way to an
inner room, "Have yer got _both_ services?"

"Yes, Peneluna." Then Mary-Clare started back.

She was in the presence of the dead. He lay rigid and carefully
prepared for burial on the narrow bed. He looked decent, at peace, and
with that unearthly dignity that death often offers as its first
gift.

Peneluna drew two chairs close to the bed; waved Mary-Clare
majestically to one and took the other herself. She was going to lay
her secrets before the one she had chosen--after that the shut-out
world might have its turn.

"I've sent word over to the Post Office," Peneluna began, "and they're
going to get folks, the doctor and minister and the rest. Before they
get here--" Peneluna paused--"before they get here I want that you
should act for the old doctor."

This was the one thing needed to rouse Mary-Clare.

"I'll do my best, Peneluna," she whispered, and clutched the
prayer-book.

"The ole doctor, he knew 'bout Philander and me. He said"--Peneluna
caught her breath--"he said once as how it was women like me that kept
men believing. He said I had a right to hold my tongue--he held
his'n."

Mary-Clare nodded. Not even she could ever estimate the secret load of
confessions her beloved foster-father bore and covered with his rare
smile.

"Mary-Clare, I want yer should read the marriage service over me and
him!" Peneluna gravely nodded to her silent dead. "I got this to say:
If Philander ain't too far on his journey, I guess he'll look back and
understand and then he can go on more cheerful-like and easy. Last
night he hadn't more than time to say a few things, but they cleared
everything, and if I'm his wife, he can trust me--a wife wouldn't harm
a dead husband when she _might_ the man who jilted her." The words
came through a hard, dry sob. Mary-Clare felt her eyes fill with hot
tears. She looked out through the one open window and felt the warm
autumn breeze against her cheek; a bit of sunlight slanted across the
room and lay brightly on the quiet man upon the bed. "Read on,
Mary-Clare, and then I can speak out."

Opening the book with stiff, cold fingers, Mary-Clare read softly,
brokenly, the solemn words.

At the close Peneluna stood up.

"Him and me, Mary-Clare," she said, "'fore God and you is husband and
wife." Then she removed the red rose from her bonnet, laid it upon
the folded wrinkled hands of the dead man and drew the sheet over