“I knew you wouldn’t!” laughed Allan.
Mamie laughed too, and kissed him.
“Don’t you feel like a fairy god-child?” she asked. “I do.”
“What day is it?” he asked, suddenly.
“The fifteenth.”
“Then to-morrow’s Betty Heywood’s wedding—and I can’t be there—I haven’t even sent a gift. What will she think of me?”
“Write and tell her,” suggested Mamie, and Allan did—told her more, perhaps, than Mamie intended he should; and the answer came promptly two days later.
“Dear Allan,” it ran, “Your letter was the dearest wedding gift of all; to know that you had found the right girl and that you are happy was just the one thing needed to give the crowning touch to my own happiness. So you see that I was right! I’ve never doubted it for an instant, but just the same I’m glad it’s proved. I’m scribbling this at the last moment, for your letter just came; there’s the wedding march—I must go. I’m very, very happy, Allan, and I suppose that this is the last time I shall ever sign myself
Betty Heywood.”
Allan looked up from the letter, his eyes shining.