“I’m going across to Bertha,” said Mary, putting on her hat with trembling hands. “It was me Uncle Abel saw. I had Bertha’s cape on that night.”
“Oh, Uncle Abel,” cried Aunt Emma, “whatever have you done?”
“Well,” said Uncle Abel, “why didn’t she get the writin’s as I told her? It’s to be hoped she won’t make such a fool of herself next time.”
Half an hour later, or thereabouts, Mary sat on Bertha Buckolt’s bed, with Bertha beside her and Bertha’s arm round her, and they were crying and laughing by turns.
“But-but-why didn’t you tell me it was Jim?” said Mary.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Harry, Mary?” asked Bertha. “It would have saved all this year of misery.
“I didn’t see Harry Dale at all that night,” said Bertha. “I was—I was crying when Jim left me, and when Harry came along I slipped behind a tree until he was past. And now, look here, Mary, I can’t marry Jim until he steadies down, but I’ll give him another chance. But, Mary, I’d sooner lose him than you.”
Bertha walked home with Mary, and during the afternoon she took Jim aside and said:
“Look here, Jim, I’ll give you another chance—for a year. Now I want you to ride into town and send a telegram to Harry Dale. How long would it take him to get here?”
“He couldn’t get here before New Year,” said Jim.