"Oh, papa, I told mamma that you carried her to the party in your breast-pocket; that is, you carried her letter!"
I fancied that John's cheek flushed a little as he said,--
"You might tell mamma that papa carries her everywhere in his breast-pocket, little girlie, and mamma would understand."
I think from that day I never feared for Ellen's future. I fancied, too, that from that day there was a new light in John Gray's eyes. Perhaps it might have been only the new light in my own; but I think when a man knows that he has once, for one hour, forgotten a promise to meet a woman whose presence has been dangerously dear to him, he must be aware of his dawning freedom.
The winter was nearly over. Ellen had said nothing to us about returning.
"Dr. Willis tells me that, from what Ellen writes to him of her health, he thinks it would be safer for her to remain abroad another year," said John to me one morning at breakfast.
"Oh, she never will stay another year!" exclaimed I.
"Not unless I go out to stay with her," said John, very quietly.
"Oh, John, could you?" and, "Oh, papa, will you take me?" exclaimed Alice and I in one breath.
"Yes," and "yes," said John, laughing, "and Sally too, if she will go."