That evening, as Mr. Penrose walked with his wife along the path of the old manse garden, he turned to her, saying:
‘This has been a trying Sunday, little woman.’
‘Yes; but I've got over it, thanks to that little lame girl. It was her nosegay that brought me through, Walter, and that little face of hers, so full of kindly concern and pity. You don't know how hard my heart was until she came to me—hard even against you for bringing me here.’
‘And you kissed Milly, didn't you, Lucy?’
‘Yes. I didn't do wrong, did I?’
‘No. That kiss of yours has touched hearts my theology cannot touch. You are queen here now.’
‘Yours—and always!’
Then he drew her to his side, and kissed her as she had kissed Milly, and on lips as sweet and rosy as the petals that fell at their feet.