“My love,” she answered, promptly. “I don’t think it the least strange, Allan. When you fell down the stairs, you called me and I heard. How could I have helped but hear?” “Yes; I suppose that was it,” he agreed, holding her closer. “But it was wonderful just the same.” “I think anything else would have been wonderful. It seems to me the most natural thing in the world. I shall always hear, when you call me, Allan.” “Will you? Well, we’ll see. When are we going to get married, Mamie?” “Oh,” she said, and pulled herself away, and sat upright, with flaming cheeks. “Not for a long time—two years, anyway. You know, I’m only seventeen.” “You thought that was a great age, not so very long ago.” “It doesn’t seem so great now—and since we know we love each other, what does anything else matter?” “It matters a good deal. I’ll see about it just as soon as I can get about.” “Do you know,” she said, looking down at him critically, “I believe you’re something of a tyrant?” “I know I am,” he laughed, joyously; “I’m a good deal of a tyrant. You’ll see!” “Maybe I won’t marry you after all!” “I’m not afraid. You’re dying for me—come now, own up.” For an instant Mamie hesitated—the traditions of her sex held her back. Then she flung herself forward upon him and hugged him tight. “I am—I am,” she cried. “And it shall be whenever you say, Allan!” And just then, Mary opened the door and looked in. “Mamie,” she began, and then stopped astonished at the sight that met her eyes. But Mamie had rushed to her and thrown her arms around her neck and was holding her tight. “Oh, mummy, mummy!” she cried. “Guess! You could never guess! Allan—we’re—” She stopped, stammering with sheer joy, and Mary, taking her by the shoulders, held her off and looked at her—at the starry eyes, at the blushing cheeks, at the smiling lips; and then, for the first time in her life, Mary Welsh quite gave way, collapsed into a chair, threw her apron over her head and sobbed as though her heart would break. “Why, mummy!” cried Mamie. “It’s nothin’! It’s nothin’!” sobbed that good woman. “Let—let me be—don’t you see it’s for joy, you foolish children,” and the storm passing as quickly as it had come, she pulled her apron down again, and kissed them both. “It’s the happiest day of my life—Oh, I have hoped for it and prayed for it—but I never thought—wait till I tell Jack! An’ him out on th’ road an’ not comin’ back till t’morrer night! Mamie,” she added, eyeing her offspring sternly, “do you know where you ought t’ be? You ought t’ be down on your knees thankin’ heaven fer such a man—the best an’ kindest on God’s green earth!” “Oh, come!” protested Allan, laughing. “No, he’s not; not by a good deal.” But Mary did not heed him. “An’ if ever,” she continued, “you give him cause for sorrow or misgivin’, you’ll answer to me, young lady—that you will!” And then, suddenly relenting, she caught Mamie to her and kissed her again.