“I know what you’re after,” she said, “she’s better; the poor thing will get well.  Oh dear! land!  I wonder, when’ll the same old story end.”

“Has she told it to you, Aunt Hildy?”

“Partly to me and partly to Mis’ Goodwin.” (Aunt Hildy never said Mrs. ——­ married or single, it was always Miss.) “She’ll tell you all about it, I guess, for she wants to see you.  She remembers your dark eyes, and Matthias she calls Peter—­yes, she does, now she’s come clean to her senses, and when she gets a little more strength, she says she must see him, and the dark eyes too; so you’ll have to go over.  Mis’ Goodwin said mebbe you’d better wait till to-morrer, and so says Brother Davis.  He come over and brought a few of his powders—­he wanted to do something.  I told him we could fetch her out straight—­Mis’ Goodwin and me—­and I think he’d better tend to himself—­says he’s got a dreadful pain under his shoulder blades; acts as if he’s goin’ to be sick.”

“Could the young lady eat anything, Mrs. Patten?” said Louis.

“Mercy! yes, I’ve made gruel twice for her and she’s all right, only she’ll be lame and sore-like for a good while, but I must go to work, I’ve been gone long enough.  Where’s your mother?” And the dear old soul hastened to her duties.

Our supper table was enlivened by the news that Aunt Hildy brought, all being interested with the exception of Mr. Benton, who was well covered with dignity.  Part of that evening, Louis and I spent with Hal and Mary.  I longed to tell them all about the letter and Mr. Benton’s deceit, but as we entered, Louis whispered, “Let us be discreet,” and I answered, “Emily will do it.”  He was so much wiser that our years told a story when they said “only a month’s difference in their ages.”  Hal and Mary were much interested in the poor lamb, and like ourselves hoped to learn her history, and help her as she must need.  Our visits here were always pleasant, and when we said “good night,” a sincere “God bless you” rose from our hearts.  We entered our sitting-room, to find Clara sitting between mother and father, and the three evidently enjoying a home talk.  After we were seated, and a lull in the conversation came, Louis startled me by saying: 

“Mr. and Mrs. Minot, I want to ask of you a favor—­greater than the one granted my little mother; perhaps so great that you will fail to grant it; but it is worth the asking, worth the waiting for through years.  May I call Emily my wife?”

My father looked strangely, and did not reply for a moment, while mother’s face was covered with that pleasant smile, which from earliest years I had considered, “yes.”  Louis’ eyes were bent on my father, who, when he answered, said: 

“You are both young, Louis.”

“Yes, sir, I know it, and I do not ask to make her my wife now.  But I love her, Mr. Minot, and it is not right we should hold a position not sanctioned by you.  I shall feel better if you are willing to consider us, as we feel, pledged to each other.”