“What?”
Phyllis had risen.
“We are to be married in three months. The matter is, of course, to remain a secret—people are so given to talk.”
Phyllis fell into her arms and kissed her tearfully—but the tears were not all her own.
“Now you will write those words,” said Ella.
Phyllis ran to a little French escritoire and snatched up a sheet of paper.
“Come to me, my beloved,” she wrote upon it; then she leaned her face upon her arm, weeping happily.
Ella came behind her. She picked up the paper and folded it up. She pressed the bell.
“Please give that to Mr. Courtland in the study,” she said to the servant.
Phyllis sprang up with a cry.