“Oh, no, I haven’t. I am simply holding on till Park comes back or gives it up; I am not trying to do more than live there. What’s to be done at your grandfather’s place?” “The house is to be whitewashed and cleaned, and things straightened up generally. I don’t know of anything in particular. I think we may go next week; mother is anxious to get settled.” She gave a little sigh. After all, this realization of her dream did not bring the pleasure of anticipation; it would be strangely unfamiliar, and there would be no happy associations connected with that house across the river. It would be farther away from church, and from Jeanie; and Agnes realized as she never did before that there would be a real tearing up of the roots when it came time to go. “Are you going to have a housewarming?” asked Carter, eager for fun. Agnes shook her head. “Not now; after a while, maybe.” “But doesn’t every one have them when they first move in?” “We will not, for it is neither a new house nor are we newcomers. We are anxious to get settled and have everything as quiet as possible for father, and when he is better we shall feel like having a jollification.” “I had a letter from Park yesterday,” said Carter, taking a folded sheet from out his hunting-shirt. “What does he say?” Agnes asked, her heart beating high at sight of the familiar writing. “Is he coming back?” “He doesn’t say anything about it. His mother is failing rapidly. He gave me some directions about the place, and told me some home news; he sent his respects to all. Oh, yes,” Carter’s eyes scanned the sheet, “he wants to know if you are married yet.” “What did you tell him?” Agnes asked eagerly. Carter laughed. “I haven’t told him anything yet. You didn’t suppose I’d write within twenty-four hours, did you?” Agnes colored up. “Oh, no, of course not. I didn’t think.” “But I know what I shall tell him,” said Carter, teasingly. “What?” “That you’re going to be.” “Oh, you must not. Don’t you dare to, Carter Ritchie.--What is it, Margret?” “Mother wants you a moment,” answered the little girl. “Then you’ll have to stay out here and talk to me, Margret,” said Carter; “I’m not going to be left alone.” Margret gave him a shy glance. She was a pretty little girl, now about thirteen years of age, a demure quiet body, but possessed of a steadiness and force that did not at first appear. No one could manage and entertain the children as Margret did. Carter coaxed her to come out and sit by him while Agnes went indoors, and when the latter came out she found the two on the best of terms. Carter was telling about the place across the river. “I’ll about live at your house,” he announced to Agnes. “I wish you’d hurry up and come.”