About half after three o’clock Mary came and began to set the little house in order.  When this was done Mrs. McGuire asked her if she would make her a few buttermilk biscuits, she had been wishing for them all day.

When she saw Mary safely in the kitchen her heart began to beat.  Now if the minister was at home, the thing was as good as done.

She watched at the window until Jimmy Watson came from school, and then, tapping on the glass, beckoned him to come in, which he did with great trepidation of spirit.

She told him to go at once and tell Mr. Grantley to come, for she needed him very badly.

Then she got back into bed, and tried to compose her features into some resemblance of invalidism.

When Mr. Grantley came she was resting easier she said (which was true), but would he just get her a drink of water from the kitchen, and would he please shut the door quick after him and not let the cat up.

Mr. Grantley went at once and she heard the door shut with a snap.

Just to be sure that it was “snibbed,” Mrs. McGuire tiptoed after him in her bare feet, a very bad thing for a sick-a-bed lady to do, too, but to her credit, be it written, she did not listen at the keyhole.

She got back into bed, exclaiming to herself with great emphasis: 

“There, now, fight it out among yerselves.”

When the minister stepped quickly inside the little kitchen, closing the door hurriedly behind him to prevent the invasion of the cat (of which there wasn’t one and never had been any), he beheld a very busy and beautiful young woman sifting flour into a baking-dish.

“Mary!” he almost shouted, hardly believing his senses.

He recovered himself instantly, and explained his errand, but the pallor of his face was unmistakable.

When Mary handed him the cup of water she saw that his hand was shaking; but she returned to her baking with the greatest composure.

The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the door in vain.

“Come out this way,” Mary said as sweetly as if she really wanted him to go.

She tried to open the outside door, also in vain.  Mrs. McGuire had secured it from the outside with a clothes-line prop and a horse nail.

The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire’s work held good.  Then the absurdity of the position struck them both, and the little house rang with their laughter—­ laughter that washed away the heartaches of the dreary days before.

The minister’s reserve was breaking down.

“Mary,” he said, taking her face between his hands, “are you going to marry Horace Clay?”

“No,” she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest light in hers that ever comes into a woman’s face.

“Well, then,” he said, as he drew her to him, “you are going to marry me.”

The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled back and the sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into the kitchen.  The teakettle, too, on the stove behind them, threw up its lid and burst into a thunder of bubbles.