Then she petted me and said I had a wise reason, she was sure, and if it was dangerous to go on, she wouldn't, and she'd be patient, and she was all worn out and she looked a fright, and _what_ a fool she had been! And she cried some more. I heard a step. I'd strained my ears for it for the last twenty minutes. "Now," I says to her, "I'll skip out to see what's doing." I slid behind a tree in time to prevent Sax from seeing me. Perez was on the hill waving his hands for joy. I felt pretty dum joyous myself, hiding in the brush with the lovely feeling of putting through a thoroughly successful put-up job added to the other. Dead silence after Saxton stepped within the little house. Then come one cry--"Arthur!" The whole business, from the cradle to the grave, was done up in one small word. Perez come down the hill; I left my brush-pile. Arthur and Mary were sitting on the stone step, hand in hand. I'll bet they never said a word after that first cry, and they held hands like they was afraid to let go, even for a minute. I thought we'd have lots of explaining to do, but shucks! They didn't want any explanations. There they were, sitting on the door-step, hand in hand. Good enough old explanation for anybody. They didn't even see us. I raised my voice, calling to Perez, "Your Excellency, I have the honor to report Panama has fallen!" And there they sat, hand in hand. They didn't even hear us, neither. End of Project Gutenberg's Plain Mary Smith, by Henry Wallace Phillips