“In other words, when you came to live with your pious uncle, he picked you?”

“Exactly,” she said; “but I submitted humbly.  I came here, as I supposed, a fairly good Christian, with an average amount of piety and an average number of faults.  My worldliness shocked my uncle, and being a peaceful person, I let him pick me.  But I rebelled at the bonnet—­spare me from one of those coal-scuttles—­I’ll go to the stake first.”

In her defiance she swung her own straw hat wildly around on the string.  Pausing, she smoothed out the gray gown and eyed it critically.

“Was such a thing ever intended for a woman to wear!” she exclaimed.

“For most women, surely not,” said I.  “Few could carry that handicap and win.  But after all, your uncle means it kindly.  He acts from interest in your soul’s welfare.”

Mary’s face became serious.

“Yes,” she said, “he has paid me the highest compliment a man can pay to a woman—­he wants to meet me in Heaven.”

How could I blame Luther Warden?

I had forgotten my uniform and my glory, my hair and my hat, and was leaning forward with my eyes on the girl.  And she was leaning toward me and our heads were very close.  The rebellious brown hair was almost in the shade of my own dashing hat-brim.

Then I said to myself in answer to the poet, “Here’s the cheek that doth not fade, too much gazed at.”  For its color was ever changing.  And again I said to myself and to the poet, when my glance had met hers, and the color was mounting higher:  “Here’s the maid whose lip mature is ever new; here’s the eye that doth not weary.”  And now aloud, forgetfully, leaning back in my chair and gazing at her from afar off—­“Here’s the face one would meet in every place.”

Mary’s chair flew back, and it was for her to gaze at me from afar off.

“What were you saying?” she demanded in a voice not “so very soft.”

“Was I saying anything?” I answered, feigning surprise.  “I thought I was only thinking.  But you were speaking of Luther Warden.”

“Was I?” she said, more quietly, but in an absent tone.

“You said he had paid you a great compliment, but do you know——­”

I paused, being a bit nervous, and flushed, for she was looking right at me.  Not till she turned away did I finish.

“Do you know,” I went on, “last night when I saw you, I thought we must have met before, and I thought if I had met you anywhere before, it must have been in Heaven.”

I had expected that at a time like this Josiah Nummler would appear.  In that I was disappointed.  In his place, with a bark and a bound, came a lithe setter, a perfect stranger to me, and Mary seized the long head in her hands and cried:  “Why, Flash—­good Flash.”

She completely ignored my last remark, and patted the dog and talked to him.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” she cried.  “He is Mr. Weston’s.”