“Are you afraid I sha'n't come back?” he demanded, with a laughing kiss. “I want to see him about something else, too.” “Well, don't be gone long.” They parted with an embrace that would have fortified older married people for a year's separation. When Bartley came back, she handed him the leaf she had torn out of his book, and sat down beside him while he read it, with her arm over his shoulder. “Dear father,” the letter ran, “Bartley and I are married. We were married an hour ago, just across the New Hampshire line, by the Rev. Mr. Jessup. Bartley wants I should let you know the very first thing. I am going to Boston with Bartley to-night, and, as soon as we get settled there, I will write again. I want you should forgive us both; but if you wont forgive Bartley, you mustn't forgive me. You were mistaken about Bartley, and I was right. Bartley has told me everything, and I am perfectly satisfied. Love to mother. “MARCIA.” “P.S.--I _did_ intend to visit Netty Spaulding. But I saw Bartley driving past on his way to the Junction, and I determined to see him if I could before he started for Boston, and tell him I was all wrong, no matter what he said or did afterwards. I ought to have told you I meant to see Bartley; but then you would not have let me come, and if I had not come, I should have died.” “There's a good deal of Bartley in it,” said the young man with a laugh. “You don't like it!” “Yes, I do; it's all right. Did you use to take the prize for composition at boarding-school?” “Why, I think it's a very good letter for when I'm in such an excited state.” “It's beautiful!” cried Bartley, laughing more and more. The tears started to her eyes. “Marcia,” said her husband fondly, “what a child you are! If ever I do anything to betray your trust in me--” There came a shuffling of feet outside the door, a clinking of glass and crockery, and a jarring sort of blow, as if some one were trying to rap on the panel with the edge of a heavy-laden waiter. Bartley threw the door open and found the landlord there, red and smiling, with the waiter in his hand. “I thought I'd bring your supper in here, you know,” he explained confidentially, “so 's't you could have it a little more snug. And my wife she kind o' got wind o' what was going on,--women will, you know,” he said with a wink,--“and she's sent ye in some hot biscuit and a little jell, and some of her cake.” He set the waiter down on the table, and stood admiring its mystery of napkined dishes. “She guessed you wouldn't object to some cold chicken, and she's put a little of that on. Sha'n't cost ye any more,” he hastened to assure them. “Now this is your room till the train comes, and there aint agoin' to anybody come in here. So you can make yourselves at home. And _I_ hope you'll enjoy your supper as much as we did ourn the night _we_ was married. There! I guess I'll let the lady fix the table; she looks as if she knowed how.”