"What is it, my dear?"
"I'm—I'm engaged," whispered Lina, hiding her face in Miss Madeline's flowered muslin lap.
"Engaged!" Miss Madeline's tone was one of surprise and awe. She blushed as she said the word as deeply as Lina had done. Then she went on, with a little quiver of excitement in her voice, "To whom, my dear?"
"Oh, you don't know him, Auntie, but I hope you will soon. His name is Ralph Wylde. Isn't it pretty? I met him last winter, and we became very good friends. But we had a quarrel before I came down here and, oh, I have been so unhappy over it. Three weeks ago he wrote me and begged my pardon—so nice of him, because I was really all to blame, you know. And he said he loved me and—all that, you know."
"No, I don't know," said Miss Madeline gently. "But—but—I can imagine."
"Oh, I was so happy. I wrote back and I had this letter from him today. He is coming down tomorrow. You'll be glad to see him, won't you, Auntie?"
"Oh, yes, my dear, and I am glad for your sake—very glad. You are sure you love him?"
"Yes, indeed," said Lina, with a little laugh, as if wondering how anyone could doubt it.
Presently, Miss Madeline said in a shy voice, "Lina, did—did you ever receive a proposal of marriage from anybody besides Mr. Wylde?"
Lina laughed roguishly. "Why, yes, Auntie, ever so many. A dozen, at least."