“Oh, Desmond, I did not know you at first.  How elegant you look!”

“Thank you; how is my mother?”

“She is well, but did not know you were coming home; neither did I.”

“Well, no, I thought I would give you a surprise.  It’s all right, here I am, this side up with care.”

“Your mother will be delighted.”

“And you?”

“I am giddy with delight, and I hope all is well with you and with my—­” The girl stopped short and said, “Mr. Brooks.”

“Yes, when I left him he was all right.”

“Did he come with you?”

“No, he remained behind to transact some business; and, Amy, if you are surprised to see me looking so elegant, as you say, you would be more surprised did you behold at this moment your—­I mean Mr. Brooks.”

A shadow flitted across the girl’s face, but it was succeeded a moment later by a bright smile, as she said: 

“Oh, I am so happy, I was never happier in my whole life.”

“And what makes you so happy?”

The question was put abruptly.

CHAPTER X.

Conclusion.

Amy suddenly appeared to realize—­well, our readers can guess what.  It appeared to cross her mind that she was betraying too great happiness, and was a little too free in betraying it.  She hesitated and blushed, and after an instant of embarrassment Desmond said: 

“Oh, don’t be afraid, tell me why you are so happy.”

“Everything makes me happy, and I shall continue to be happy unless—­” Again the girl stopped short.

“Go on,” said Desmond.

“Unless I am to be taken away from your mother.”

“Do you desire to remain with my mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I love your mother.”

“You love my mother?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And who else?”

The question came in a pointed manner; Amy was a girl nearly sixteen.

“My—­I mean Mr. Brooks.”

“Who else?”

The girl did not answer.

“Come, Amy, who else do you love?”

“You are real mean.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You know.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to be mean, but tell me who else you love?”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“No.”

There was bantering in the tones of both these young people at that moment.

“Shall I tell you who I love?”

“Yes.”

“I love my mother.”

“You can’t help it.”

“I have learned to love Mr. Brooks, your—­I mean—­well, Mr. Brooks.”

In a tantalizing tone the girl asked: 

“Who else?”

“Oh, you’re real mean,” said Desmond, imitating Amy’s tone at the moment she had made the same remark to him.

“I don’t want to be mean.”