“So you inquired when it went to Boston,” said Bartley, with a touch of his old raillery. “Come,” he added, taking her hand under his arm. He led her out of the room, to where his cutter stood outside. She was astonished to find the colt there. “I wonder I didn't see it. But if I had, I should have thought that you had sold it and gone away; Andy told me you were coming here to sell the colt. When the man told me the express was gone, I knew you were on it.” They found the boy stolidly waiting for Marcia on the veranda of the hotel, stamping first upon one foot and then the other, and hugging himself in his great-coat as the coming snow-fall blew its first flakes in his face. “Is that you, Andy?” asked Bartley. “Yes, sir,” answered the boy, without surprise at finding him with Marcia. “Well, here! Just take hold of the colt's head a minute.” As the boy obeyed, Bartley threw the reins on the dashboard, and leaped out of the cutter, and went within. He returned after a brief absence, followed by the landlord. “Well, it ain't more 'n a mile 'n a half, if it's that. You just keep straight along this street, and take your first turn to the left, and you're right at the house; it's the first house on the left-hand side.” “Thanks,” returned Bartley. “Andy, you tell the Squire that you left Marcia with me, and I said I would see about her getting back. You needn't hurry.” “All right,” said the boy, and he disappeared round the corner of the house to get his horse from the barn. “Well, I'll be all ready by the time you're here,” said the landlord, still holding the hall-door ajar, “Luck _to_ you!” he shouted, shutting it. Marcia locked both her hands through Bartley's arm, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Neither spoke for some minutes; then he asked, “Marcia, do you know where you are?” “With you,” she answered, in a voice of utter peace. “Do you know where we are going?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her cold, pure cheek. “No,” she answered in as perfect content as before. “We are going to get married.” He felt her grow tense in her clasp upon his arm, and hold there rigidly for a moment, while the swift thoughts whirled through her mind. Then, as if the struggle had ended, she silently relaxed, and leaned more heavily against him. “There's still time to go back, Marcia,” he said, “if you wish. That turn to the right, yonder, will take us to Equity, and you can be at home in two hours.” She quivered. “I'm a poor man,--I suppose you know that; I've only got fifteen dollars in the world, and the colt here. I know I can get on; I'm not afraid for myself; but if you would rather wait,--if you're not perfectly certain of yourself,--remember, it's going to be a struggle; we're going to have some hard times--” “You forgive me?” she huskily asked, for all answer, without moving her head from where it lay. “Yes, Marcia.” “Then--hurry.”