"Are you happy, mother?" asked Dale, boyishly.
"Ah, I did not know I could be happier—but, I am!" And Mother Moira smiled through the tears that brimmed in her eyes.
Beryl, staring at her mother and brother and her friend, suddenly gave voice to a thought that had come with such significance as to sweep away her girlish reserve.
"Then it isn't Tom Granger at all! You don't care a bit about him?"
Robin's face lifted. "About Tom? Oh, goodness me, no. Why, he isn't worth Dale's little finger—Beryl Lynch, why do you ask me that?"
"Oh—nothing. Really, truly—" And Beryl escaped into the house.
Robin drove Dale back to the village. At the turn of the road near the House of Laughter she stopped the car that they might enjoy for a moment the twilight glow of the valley. Lights twinkled from the Mill houses across the river. From the House of Laughter came the sound of singing. A young crescent of a moon shone silvery against a purple blue sky.
"Little Red-Robin," cried Dale, suddenly, "Are you very sure?"
"Sure—of what?" Robin asked in a voice that trembled in spite of her.