In an instant the Judge disappeared, just as he said he would, leaving Lawrence and Mildred alone, and free to tell each other of the long, long dreary days and nights which had intervened since they sat together before, just as they were sitting now. Much Lawrence blamed her for having yielded to his father in a matter which so nearly concerned her own life’s happiness, and at the mention of Mr. Thornton, Mildred lifted up her head from its natural resting-place, and parting Lawrence’s dark hair, said: “But won’t it be wicked for me to be your wife. Didn’t my letter mean that I would never marry you?” “No, it didn’t,” answered Lawrence, kissing the little fingers which came down from his hair. “You said you would refuse me and you did, but you never promised not to make up. _I_ think the making up is _splendid_, don’t you, darling?” Whether she thought so or not, she took it very quietly, and whenever the Judge looked in, as he did more than once, he whispered to himself: “Guy, don’t he snug up to her good, and don’t she act as if she liked it!” Ten, eleven, twelve, and even one the clock struck before that blissful interview was ended, and Lawrence had completed the arrangements, which he next morning submitted to the Judge for his approval. He would go to Boston that day, and would tell his father that Mildred was to be his wife on the 20th of June, that being his birthday. After their bridal tour they would return to Beechwood, and remain with the Judge until he consented to part with Mildred,—then they would go to Boston and settle down into the happiest couple in the whole world. To all this the Judge assented, thinking the while that it would be some time before he would be willing to part with Mildred. Breakfast being over, he gave Mildred the letters so long withheld, but she did not care to read them then. She preferred joining Lawrence in the parlor, where there was another whispered conference, which ended in her looking very red in the face, and running away upstairs, to avoid the quizzical glance of the Judge, who, nevertheless, called after her, asking “what that wet spot was on her cheek.” “You are a happy dog,” he said to Lawrence, as he went with him to the carriage, adding as he bade him good-by, “Give my regrets to Bobum, and tell him that what I said to him last fall are my sentiments still.” Lawrence promised compliance, and glancing up at the window, from which a bright face had just disappeared, he said good-by again, and was driven to the depot. Contrary to Lawrence’s expectation, his father seemed neither surprised nor offended when told what he had done. “Miss Howell was a nice girl,” he said, “and he had more than once been on the point of confessing to his son how he had influenced her decision.”