As Mrs. Houghton declined to “tell ’em,” Eleanor, reading the friendly words, was able to say, “I don’t think he’s angry?”

“’Course not!” said Maurice.

Then she opened the other letter.

My dear boy,—­I wish you hadn’t got married in such a hurry; Edith is dreadfully disappointed not to have had the chance “to be your bridesmaid”!  You must give us an opportunity soon to know your wife.  Of course you must both come to Green Hill as usual, for your vacation.

“She is furious,” said Eleanor.  “She thinks it’s dreadful to have eloped.”  She had turned away from him, and was looking out across the slow current of the river at the furnaces on the opposite bank—­it was the same river, that, ten days ago, had run sparkling and lisping over brown depths and sunny shallows past their meadow.  Her face lightened and darkened as the sheeting violet and orange flames from the great smokestacks roared out against the sky, and fell, and rose again.  The beauty of them caught Maurice’s eye, and he really did not notice what she was saying, until he caught the words:  “Mrs. Houghton’s like Auntie—­she thinks I’ve injured you—­” Before he could get on his feet to go and take her in his arms, and deny that preposterous word, she turned abruptly and came and sat on his knee; then, with a sort of sob, let herself sink against his breast.  “But oh, I did so want to be happy!—­and you made me do it.”

He gave her a quick squeeze, and chuckled:  “You bet I made you!” he said; he pushed her gently to her feet, and got up and walked about the room, his hands in his pockets.  “As for Mrs. Houghton, you’ll love her.  She never fusses; she just says, ‘Consider the stars.’  I do hope you’ll like them, Eleanor,” he ended, anxiously.  He was still in that state of mind where the lover hopes that his beloved will approve of his friends.  Later on, when he and she love each other more, and so are more nearly one, he hopes that his friends will approve of his beloved, even as he used to be anxious that they should approve of him.  “I do awfully want you to like ’em at Green Hill!  We’ll go the minute your school closes.”

“Must we?” she said, nervously.

“I’m afraid we’ve got to,” he said; “you see, I must find out about ways and means.  And Edith would be furious if we didn’t come,” he ended, chuckling.

“Is she nice?”

“Why, yes,” he said; “she’s just a child, of course.  Only eleven.  But she and I have great times.  We have a hut on the mountain; we go up for a day, and Edith cooks things.  She’s a bully cook.  Her beloved Johnny Bennett tags on behind.”

“But do you like to be with a child?” she said, surprised.

“Oh, she’s got a lot of sense.  Say, Nelly, I have an idea.  While we are at Green Hill, let’s camp out up there?”

“You don’t mean stay all night?” she said, flinching.  “Oh, wouldn’t it be very uncomfortable?  I—­I hate the dark.”