"Jim," she whispered, "it is _so_ silly to say: '_If_ you had really cared'; because you know, perfectly well, that I care for you, more than any woman in the world has ever cared for any man before! And I do assure you, Jim, that you couldn't have married me _validly_ from here--and think how awful it would be, to love as much as we love and then find out that we were not _validly_ married--and when you come to my home, and fetch me away from there, you will admit--yes really _admit_--that I was right. You will have to apologise humbly for having said 'Bosh!' so often. Jim--dearest! Look at the clock! I _must_ go. Poor Miss Murgatroyd will grow so tired of listening for us. She always leaves her door a crack open. So does Miss Susannah. They have all taken to sleeping with their doors ajar. I deftly led the conversation round to riddles yesterday, when I was alone with them for a few minutes, and asked sternly: 'When is a door, not a door?' They all answered: 'When it is a jar!' quite unabashed; and Miss Eliza asked another! I believe Susie stands at her crack, in the darkness, in hopes of seeing you march by.... No, don't say naughty words. They are dears, all three of them; and we shall miss them horribly to-morrow. Oh, Jim--I've just had such a brilliant idea! I shall ask them to be my bridesmaids! Can't you see them following me up the aisle? It would be worse than the duchess giving Jane away. Ah, you don't know that story? I will tell it you, some day. Jim, say 'Good-night' quickly, and let me go." "Once," said Jim Airth, tightening his grasp on her wrists--"once, Myra, we said no 'good-night,' and no 'good-morning.'" "Jim, darling!" said Myra, gently; "on that night, before I went to sleep, you said to me: 'We are not alone. _God is here_.' And then you repeated part of the hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. And, Jim--I thought you the best and strongest man I had ever known; and I felt that, all my life, I should trust you, as I trusted my God." Jim Airth loosed the hands he had held so tightly, and kissed them very gently. "Good-night, my sweetheart," he said, "and God bless you!" Then he turned away to the marble table. Myra ran swiftly up the stairs and closed her door. Then she knelt beside her bed, and sobbed uncontrollably; partly for joy, and partly for sorrow. The unanswered question commenced its reiteration: "Ah, was I right to keep him waiting?" Presently she lifted her head, held her breath, and stared into the darkness. A vision seemed to pass across her room. A tall, bearded man, in evening clothes. In his arms a tiny dog, peeping at her through its curls, as if to say: "_I_ have the better place. Where do _you_ come in?" The tall man turned at the door. "Good-night, my dear Myra," he said, kindly. The vision passed.