For a time Madam Conway hesitated, for she knew Mike’s one great failing, and she hardly dared risk herself with him, lest she should find a seat less desirable even than the memorable brush-heap.  But Mike protested loudly to having joined the “Sons of Temperance” only the night before, and as in his new suit of blue, with shining brass buttons, he presented a more stylish appearance than his father, his mistress finally decided to try him, threatening all manner of evil if in any way he broke his pledge, either to herself or the “Sons,” the latter of whom had probably never heard of him.  He was perfectly sober now, and drove them safely to Worcester, where they soon found themselves in Theo’s handsome rooms.  Her wrappings removed and herself snugly ensconced in a velvet-cushioned chair, Madam Conway asked the young bride how long before Mrs. Douglas, senior, would probably arrive.

A slight shadow, which no one observed, passed over Theo’s face as she answered, “George’s father seldom goes into society, and consequently his mother will not come.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” replied Madam Conway, thinking of the purple satin, and continuing, “Nor the young lady, either?”

“None of them,” answered Theo, adding hastily, as if to change the conversation, “Isn’t my piano perfectly elegant?” and she ran her fingers over an exquisitely carved instrument, which had inscribed upon it simply “Theo”; and then, as young brides sometimes will, she expatiated upon the kindness and generosity of George, showing, withal, that her love for her husband was founded upon something far more substantial than family or wealth.

Her own happiness, it would seem, had rendered her less selfish and more thoughtful for others; for once that afternoon, on returning to her room after a brief absence, she whispered to Maggie that “someone in the parlor below wished to see her.”

Then seating herself at her grandmother’s feet, she entertained her so well with a description of her travels that the good lady failed to observe the absence of Maggie, who, face to face with Henry Warner, was making amends for their long separation.  Much they talked of the past, and then Henry spoke of the future; but of this Maggie was less hopeful.  Her grandmother would never consent to their marriage, she knew—­the “Stars and Stripes” had decided that matter, even though there were no Arthur Carrollton across the sea, and Maggie sighed despondingly as she thought of the long years of single-blessedness in store for her.

“There is but one alternative left, then,” said Henry.  “If your grandmother refuses her consent altogether, I must take you without her consent.”

“I shan’t run away,” said Maggie; “I shall live an old maid, and you must live an old bachelor, until grandma—­”

She did not have time to finish the sentence ere Henry commenced unfolding the following plan: