Her aunt had announced that she was going to Europe.  “I’m goin’ to take you,” Mrs. Newbolt said. “I don’t know what would become of you if I left you alone!  You are about as capable as a baby.  That was a great phrase of your dear uncle Thomas’s—­’capable as a baby,’ I’m perfectly sure the parlor ceilin’ has got to be tinted this spring.  When does your school close?  We’ll go the minute it closes.  You can board Bingo with Mrs. O’Brien.”

Eleanor, deeply hurt, was tempted to retort with the announcement that she needn’t be “left alone”; she might get married!  But she was silent; she never knew what to say when assailed by the older woman’s tongue.  She just wrote Maurice, helplessly, that she was going abroad.

He was panic-stricken.  Going abroad?  Uncle Henry’s ancient dame was a she-devil, to carry her off!  Then, in the midst of his anger, he recognized his opportunity:  “The hell-cat has done me a good turn, I do believe!  I’ll get her!  Bless the woman!  I’ll pay her passage myself, if she’ll only go and never come back!”

It was on the heels of Mrs. Newbolt’s candor about Eleanor’s “capableness” that he swept her resistance away.  “You’ve got to marry me,” he told her; “that’s all there is to it.”  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a marriage license.  “I’ll call for you to-morrow at ten; we’ll go to the mayor’s office.  I’ve got it all fixed up.  So, you see there’s no getting out of it.”

“But,” she protested, dazzled by the sheer, beautiful, impertinence of it, “Maurice, I can’t—­I won’t—­I—­”

“You will,” he said.  “To-morrow’s Saturday,” he added, practically, “and there’s no school, so you’re free.”  He rose....  “Better leave a letter for your aunt.  I’ll be here at five minutes to ten.  Be ready!” He paused and looked hard at her; caught her roughly in his arms, kissed her on her mouth, and walked out of the room.

The mere violence of it lifted her into the Great Adventure!  When he commanded, “Be ready!” she, with a gasp, said, “Yes.”

Well; they had gone to the mayor’s office, and been married; then they had got on a car and ridden through Mercer’s dingy outskirts to the end of the route in Medfield, where, beyond suburban uglinesses, there were glimpses of green fields.

Once as the car rushed along, screeching around curves and banging over switches, Eleanor said, “I’ve come out here four times a week for four years, to Fern Hill.”

And Maurice said:  “Well, that’s over!  No more school-teaching for you!”

She smiled, then sighed.  “I’ll miss my little people,” she said.

But except for that they were silent.  When they left the car, he led the way across a meadow to the bank of the river; there they sat down under the locust, and he kissed her, quietly; then, for a while, still dumb with the wonder of themselves, they watched the sky, and the sailing white clouds, and the river—­flowing—­flowing; and each other.