“And Mr. Thorpe—­he would have been married, but she died.  He told me and he showed me her picture, and he says that it doesn’t make any difference to be dead, when you love anybody, and that Heaven, for him, will be where she waits for him and puts her hand in his again.  He was crying, and so was I, but it’s because he has her and I have you!”

“Sweetheart!  Darling!” cried Ralph, crushing her into his close embrace.  “It’s God Himself who brought you to me now!”

“No,” returned Araminta, missing the point, “I came all by myself.  And I ran all the way.  Nobody brought me.  But I’ve come, for always, and I’ll never leave you again.  I’m sorry I broke your heart!”

“You’ve made it well again,” he said, fondly, “and so we’ll be married—­you and I.”

“Yes,” repeated Araminta, her beautiful face alight with love, “we’ll be married, you and I!”

“Sweet,” he said, “do you think I deserve so much?”

“Being married is giving everything,” she explained, “but I haven’t anything at all.  Only eight quilts and me!  Do you care for quilts?”

“Quilts be everlastingly condemned.  I’m going to tell Aunt Hitty.”

“No,” said Araminta, “I’m going to tell her my own self, so now!  And I’ll tell her to-morrow!”

It was after ten when Ralph took Araminta home.  From the parlour window Miss Mehitable was watching anxiously.  She had divested herself of the rustling black silk and was safely screened by the shutters.  She had been at home an hour or more, and though she had received plenty of good advice, of a stern nature, from her orthodox counsellor, her mind was far from at rest.  Having conjured up all sorts of dire happenings, she was relieved when she heard voices outside.

Miss Mehitable peered out eagerly from behind the shutters.  Up the road came Araminta—­may the saints preserve us!—­with a man!  Miss Mehitable quickly placed him as that blackmailing play-doctor who now should never have his four dollars and a half unless he collected it by law.  Only in the last ditch would she surrender.

They were talking and laughing, and Ralph’s black-coated arm was around Araminta’s white-robed waist.  They came slowly to the gate, where they stopped.  Araminta laid her head confidingly upon Ralph’s shoulder and he held her tightly in his arms, kissing her repeatedly, as Miss Mehitable guessed, though she could not see very well.

At last they parted and Araminta ran lightly into the house, saying, in a low, tender voice:  “To-morrow, dear, to-morrow!”

She went up-stairs, singing.  Even then Miss Mehitable observed that it was not a hymn, but some light and ungodly tune she had picked up, Heaven knew where!

She went to her room, still humming, and presently her light was out, but her guardian angel was too stiff with horror to move.

“O Lord,” prayed Araminta, as she sank to sleep, “keep me from the contamination of—­not being married to him, for Thy sake, Amen.”