“There, there, dearest!” he said, “don’t trouble.  I knew it was to be.  I came straight to you.”  He tightened his grip upon her hands.  Mary Ellen straightened and looked him in the face.

“I’ll admit it,” she said.  “I knew that you were coming.  I must have dreamed it.”

There in the street car, upon the public highway, Franklin cast his arm about her waist and drew her strongly to him.  “Dear girl,” he said, “it was to be!  We must work out our lives together.  Will you be happy—­out there—­with me?”

Again Mary Ellen turned and looked at him with a new frankness and unreserve.

“That’s the oddest of it,” said she.  “Out on the prairies I called the South ‘back home.’  Now it’s the other way.”

They fell again into silence, but already, lover-like, began to read each the other’s thoughts and to find less need of speech.

“You and I, dearest,” said Franklin finally, “you and I together, forever and ever.  We’ll live at the Halfway House.  Don’t shiver, child; I’ve built a fine new house there—­”

“You’ve built a house?”

“Yes, yes.  Well, I’ll confess it—­I bought the place myself.”

“Then it was your money?”

“And it is your money.”

“I’ve a notion,” began Mary Ellen, edging away, biting her lip.

“And so have I,” said Franklin, stooping and kissing her fingers with scandalous publicity.  “I’ve a notion that you shall not speak of that.  It is ours.  We’ve more than a thousand acres of land there, and plenty of cattle.  Curly shall be foreman—­he’s married the little waiter girl, and has come back to Ellisville; they live next door to Sam and Nora.  Aunt Lucy shall be our cook.  We shall have roses, and green grass, and flowers.  And you and I—­you and I—­shall live and shall do that which has been sent to us to do.  Mary Ellen—­dear Mary Ellen—­”

Again the girl threw up her head, but her pride was going fast.

“Then—­then you think—­you think it is no sin?  Is there no lapse in this for me?  You think I shall not be—­”

Franklin drew her closer to him.  “That which is before us now is
Life,” he said.  “Dearest, how sweet—­how very sweet!”

A caged mocking bird at a little near-by house burst out into a shrill paean, fellow to that of the wild bird of the oaks.  Mary Ellen felt her senses melting into a mysterious, bewildering joy.  Unconsciously she swayed slightly against the shoulder of her lover.  In her heart the music of the bird thrilled on, even when the tinkle of the little bell ceased, even when Franklin, stepping from the car, held up his hands to her and whispered, “Come.”