They went out together, in search of Mr. Kendrick and Ruth, and then the party proceeded over the house.  With a word and a fee Richard dismissed the caretaker, and the four were free to talk of their affairs.  Ruth was wild with delight at the news; Mr. Kendrick quietly happy at Roberta’s words to him, and her clasp of his hand.

“Richard was sure you would be pleased, my dear,” he said, “and I myself could not doubt that, brought up in the atmosphere you have been, you must prefer such a home as this, so like your own.  And if you would really care to have me here with you, a part of the year, I could but be gratified and contented.”

They assured him of their joy at this:  they mounted the stairs with him and searched for the apartments which should be his.  In spite of his protests they insisted on his occupying those which were obviously the choicest of the house, declaring that nothing could be too good for him.  He was deeply touched at their devotion, and they were as glad as he.  The time passed rapidly in these momentous affairs.

“I suppose we must be off,” admitted Richard reluctantly, discovering the hour.  “Robin, how can you bear to leave it so long untenanted?  From July to Christmas—­what an interminable stretch of time!”

“Not with all you have planned to do,” Roberta reminded him.  “Think what it will mean to get it all in order.”

“I do think what it will mean.  Don’t I, though!  It will mean—­shopping with my love, choosing rugs and furniture—­and plates and cups, Robin—­plates and cups to eat and drink from.  The fun of that!  Will you help us, Rufus?” He turned, laughing, to the young girl beside him.  “Will you come and eat and drink from our plates and cups?  Ah, but this is a great old world—­yes? you three dear people!  And I’m the happiest fellow in it!”

There seemed small doubt that there could be few happier, just then, as standing at the top of his own staircase and gazing down into the wide and empty hall toward the open door which led out upon the white-pillared portico of his home-that-was-to-be, Richard Kendrick flung up one arm, lifting an imaginary cup high in the air, and calling joyously: 

"Here’s hoping!"

CHAPTER XXV

A STOUT LITTLE CABIN

Christmas morning! and the bells in St. Luke’s pealing the great old hymn, dear for scores of years to those who had heard it chiming from the ivy-grown towers—­“Adeste, Fideles.”

"Oh, come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!"

Joyful and triumphant, indeed, though yet subdued and humble, since this paradox may be at times in human hearts, was Richard Kendrick, as he stood waiting in the vestibule of St. Luke’s, on Christmas morning, for a tryst he had made.  Not with Roberta, for it was not possible for her to be present to-day, but with Ruth Gray, that young sister who had become so like a sister by blood to Richard that, at her suggestion, it had seemed to him the happiest thing in the world to go to church with her on Christmas morning—­the morning of the day which was to see his marriage.