"She did," he answered. "Do you deny that it's true?"
"I have told you I would never accept your 'proposition,'" was my answer.
"So you did," said he. "Then you mean that you're going to sacrifice my mother's happiness and mine, simply because you're afraid of being accused of mercenary motives?"
"I shall never accept your 'proposition,'" I repeated, with a faint smile that was a plain hint.
He came very close to me and looked down into my face. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded. And then he must have remembered what his proposition was—a strictly business arrangement on both sides. For, with a sort of gasp of relief, he took me in his arms. I do love the combination of strength and tenderness in a man. He had looked and talked and been so strong up to that instant. Then he was so tender—I could hardly keep back the tears.
"Wouldn't you like me to tell mother?" he asked. "She's just in the next room—and—"
I nodded and said, "I never should have caught you if it hadn't been for her."
"Nor I you," said he. And he put me in a chair and opened the door. I somehow couldn't look up, though I knew she was there.
"I don't know whether to laugh or cry," said "ma" Burke. "So I guess I'll just do both." And then she seated herself and was as good as her word.
