From each of these something had been given her, some fault, some virtue.  If any of them had been brave, there must have been handed down to her some bit of bravery—­if any of them had been cowards—­

But none of them had been cowards.

“We came to a new country,” said the great-grandparents.  “There were hardships, but we loved and lived through them—­”

“The Civil war tore our hearts,” said the grand-parents.  “Brother hated brother, and friend hated friend, but we loved and lived through it—­”

“We were not tested,” said her own parents.  “You are our child and test has come to you.  If you are brave, it will be because we have given to you that which came first to us—­”

Jean sat up, wide-awake—­“I am not brave,” she said.

She stood, after that, at a lower window, watching.  Far down the road a big black motor flew straight as a crow towards the hill on which the Doctor’s house stood.  It stopped at the gate.  A man stepped out.  Jean gave a gasp, then flew to meet him.

“Oh, Derry, Derry—­”

He came in and shut the door behind him, took her in his arms, kissed her, and kissed her again.  “I love you,” he said, “I love you.  I couldn’t stay away—­”

It seemed to Jean quite the most wonderful thing of all the wonderful things that had happened, that he should be here in this old house where her parents had come for their honeymoon—­where her own honeymoon was so soon to be—.

She saved that news for him, however.  He had to tell her first of how he had taken the wrong road after he had left Baltimore.  He had gone without his lunch to get to her quickly.  No, he wasn’t hungry, and he was glad Mary Connolly was out, “I’ve so much to say to you.”

Then, too, she delayed the telling so that he might see the farm before darkness fell.  She wrapped herself in a hooded red cloak in which he thought her more than ever adorable.

The sun rested on the rim of the world, a golden disk under a wind-blown sky.  It was very cold, but she was warm in her red cloak, he in his fur-lined coat and cap.

She told him about her father’s honeymoon, hugging her own secret close.  “They came here, Derry, and it was in May.  I wish you could see the place in May, with all the appleblooms.

“It seems queer, doesn’t it, Derry, to think of father honeymooning.  He always seems to be making fun of things, and one should be serious on a honeymoon.”

She flashed a smile at him and he smiled back.  “I shall be very serious on mine.”

“Of course.  Derry, wouldn’t you like a honeymoon here?”

“I should like it anywhere—­with you—­”

“Well,” she drew a deep breath, “Daddy says we may—­”

“We may what, Jean-Joan?”

“Get married—­”

“Before he goes?”

“Yes.”

She leaned forward to get the full effect of his surprise, to watch the dawn of his delight.