Mary Amber’s eyes were dancing, and Lyman Gage wanted to laugh, but he controlled his voice.
“Aunt Marilla, this is Miss Harrower, a girl who used to be an old friend of mine, and she thinks she can’t stay any longer. Would you mind taking her down to the door? Good-by, Elinore. Congratulations! And I hope you’ll be very happy!” He held out his free hand—the other still held Mary Amber’s, and the smile upon his lips was full of merriment. But Elinore Harrower ignored the hand and the congratulations; and, drawing her fur mantle once more about her small haughty shoulders, she sailed from the room, her coral and silver toque held high, and her little red mouth drooping with scorn and defeat. Miss Marilla, all hospitality now that she understood, offered tea and cake, but was vouchsafed no answer whatever; and so in joyous, wondering silence she attended her soldier’s guest to the door.
Lyman Gage lay back on his pillows, his face turned away from Mary Amber, listening; but his hand still held Mary Amber’s. And Mary Amber, standing quietly by his side, listening too, seemed to understand that the curtain had not fallen yet, not quite, upon the little play; for a smile wove in and out among the dimples near her lips, and her eyes were dancing little happy lights of mirth. It was not until the front door shut upon the guest and they heard the motor’s soft purr as the car left the house that they felt the tenseness of the moment relax, and consciousness of their position stole upon them.
“Mary, Mary Amber!” whispered Lyman Gage softly, looking up into her face, “can you ever forgive me for all this?”
He held her hand, and his eyes pleaded for him.
“But it is all true. There is another one. I love you! And oh, I’m so tired. Mary Amber, can you forgive me—and—and love me, just a little bit?”
Down upon her knees went Mary Amber beside that bed, and gathered her soldier boy within her strong young arms, drawing his tired head upon her firm, sweet shoulder.
When Miss Marilla trotted back up-stairs on her weary, glad feet, and put her head in at the door fearfully, to see how her boy had stood the strain of the visitor—and to berate herself for having allowed a stranger to come up without warning, she found them so, with Mary Amber soothing her patient to sleep by kisses on his tired eyelids, and the soldier’s big white hand enfolding Mary’s little one contentedly, while the man’s low voice growled tenderly:
“Mary, you are the only girl I ever really loved. I didn’t know there was a girl like you when I knew her.”
So Miss Marilla drew the door to softly lest Molly Poke should come snooping round that way, and trotted off to the kitchen to see about some charlotte russe for supper, a great thankful gladness growing in her heart, for—oh! suppose it had been that other—hussy!