“I’m afraid, Cousin Imogene, I can’t be that, unless—unless you adopt Val Tracy for a nephew. You see,” Dorothea went on hurriedly, “Val and I were both mixed up. He thought I was in love with Larry Stanchfield, and that’s the reason he saved him that time, though an Irishman, of course, hates an informer above anything. And I thought he was in love with April; but he wasn’t, and—well, it all came out that day we rescued Lee Hendon, and—and I’m all mixed up, too, about what I’ll be when I marry Val; because now I’m half English and half American, and then I’ll be Irish too, I suppose.”
“No, my dear,” Miss Imogene replied as she took the girl in her arms. “You’ll be all American, both of you. Now that our country is to be united again we can take in all the nationalities, and the Irish, honey, make very good Americans! I think we’ll have to arrange for a double wedding? What do think?”
“I think it would be lovely!” replied Dorothea.
THE END
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