At the sound of his wooden leg in the brick passage, Cai Tamblyn thrust his head out from the kitchen doorway.
"You come in," said he. "Please the Lord, the worst is over; but I had to tell her."
"Her?" echoed the Major in bewilderment. "Who?"
"Why, you see, fixed up as we were here—the woman with six empty beds to nurse, and me on 'tother side with a roomful o' momentoes, an' no end to it but the grave—there seemed no way out but matterimony. What with my fifty an' her little savin's we might ha' managed it, too, comfertable enough. But when along comes you an' upsets the apple-cart, w'y, in justice, the woman had to be told. Which it took her like a slap in the wind, an' I'm surprised the way she'd set her heart on it. But never you mind; she's sensible enough when she comes round."
"Cai," said the Major, solemnly, "I thought we had agreed that no one was to be told?"
"So we did, sir," answered Mr. Tamblyn, setting his jaw. "But, come to think it over, 'twasn't fair to the woman. Not bein' a married man yourself, sir, or as good as such—"
"Excuse me," said the Major, lifting a hand. "I quite well understand. But suppose that I have not come back after all!"