“I don’t know of any that would appeal to you.  But there is one.”

“May I know it?”

She hesitated.  “I’m—­very shabby,” she said, reluctantly; “much shabbier than you can guess.”

“We’ll go by the way of New York, and you can buy all you need.  That’s an objection which turns into an argument for the other side, for I want very much to see a certain old friend in New York, who was out of town when I landed last week.  I can do it while you shop.  Doesn’t that convince you?”

“I can let it—­if you really think it is best to be in such haste.”

“Why not?  Why should we waste another day apart that we could spend together?  At its longest life is too short for love.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“I’m thankful, very thankful, that you are too womanly to insist on any prolonging of what has certainly been separation enough.  I felt that you wouldn’t.  Oh, all through, it has been your womanliness I have counted on, dear,—­an inexhaustible, rich mine of sense and sweetness.”

“You rate me too high,” Charlotte protested, softly.  “I’m only a working-woman, now, you know.  All the old traditions of the family have been set aside by me.”

“You have lived up to their traditions of nobility understood in just a little different way.  It is these years of effort which have made you what you are.  If I had known you in the days before trouble came to you I might have admired your beauty, but I shouldn’t have loved your soul.”

“Then”—­she looked up into his face—­“I’m glad for everything I’ve suffered.”

* * * * *

The sunlight was pouring in again, next morning, when Charlotte awoke.  She lay, for a little, looking out into the treetops, holding the coming day against her heart.

“I can’t believe it; oh, I can’t believe it,” she whispered to herself.  “A week ago so heavy and forlorn and poor—­to-day, in spite of losing Granny, so rich, rich.  I’m to be—­his wife—­this day—­his wife!  O God! make me fit for him; make me fit to take his love!”

When she went downstairs she found him waiting at the foot, looking up at her with his heart in his eyes, though his manner was as quiet and composed as ever.  At his side stood Martha Macauley, excited and eager.  The moment that Leaver’s hand had released Charlotte’s Martha had her in her arms.

“You dear girl!” she cried.  “Of all the romantic things I ever heard of!  I’m so upset I don’t know what to do or say, except that I think you’re doing just exactly right.  It’s as Dr. Leaver says; there isn’t a thing in the way.  Why shouldn’t you go back together?  Only I wish Ellen and Red were here; they’re certain to feel cheated.”

“We’ll try to make it up to them,” Leaver said, smiling.

“It’s all right,” declared James Macauley, joining them.  “I like the idea of getting these things over quietly, without any fuss over trunkfuls of clothes.  If a lady always looks like a picture, whatever she wears, why should she need fairly to jump out of her frame because she’s getting married?”