"I hardly hoped for such good fortune," he cried, as Sage gently disengaged herself from his clasp, and stood gazing rather sadly in his face; "but oh! pray, pray don't look at me like that, darling, I'm here to go down on my knees to you, Sage. There," he cried, "I will, to beg pardon--to tell you I was a weak, jealous fool--that I know you could not help Cyril Mallow coming and admiring you (he'd have been a fool if he hadn't!)--that you're the best, and dearest, and truest, and sweetest, and most innocent-hearted of girls--that I love you more dearly than ever, and that I've been a miserable wretch ever since last night." "Don't do that, Luke," she said, as he literally went upon his knees; "it hurts me." "And I'd suffer anything sooner than give you a moment's pain," he cried, springing to his feet; and they stood now in the middle of the old parlour. "But you haven't forgiven me, Sage," he said, piteously. "Yes, Luke, I've forgiven you, but I want you to know and trust me better. Your words seemed so cruel to me, and if you knew me you would not have said them. I did not know that Cyril Mallow when he called did so that he might see me, and we hardly exchanged a dozen words." "And if you had exchanged a thousand, sweet, what then?" cried Luke, proudly. "I was a jealous idiot, and ought to have known better; but it has been a lesson to me on my weakness, and now I am going to wait patiently till I can say what your uncle wishes." Sage was silent, for she was thinking it was her duty to tell him that, after the sad little trouble that had come between them, it would be better for them to be more distant for a time; but she could not say it with his eyes looking appealingly at her. She had felt so proud of him for his manly bearing and straightforward honesty of purpose. The words would not come, and somehow the next minute she was sobbing in his arms as he whispered those two words, but in such a tone-- "My darling!" She started from him guiltily the next moment, and ran up-stairs, and stayed till there was a fresh crunching of wheels and the trampling of a horse's hoofs, when she came down again to welcome her sister and her husband, John Berry--a bluff, middle-aged farmer to whom Rue had been married some five years, and they had come now to spend a few days, bringing their two little girls. "Ah, Luke, my man of wisdom, how are you? Sage, my dear, give us a kiss. Bless you, how well you look. How am I? Hearty, and so's Rue." Sage was kissing her sister affectionately the next moment, heartily glad to see her looking so rosy and well, but blushing redder as she whispered merrily-- "Oh! I am sorry we came and interrupted you. You look so guilty, Sagey. When's it to be?" "Not for years to come, dear," said Sage, as she busied herself with Lotty and Totty, their two golden-haired little children, who were so wrapped up that they were, as John said, warm as toasts.