"I have come," she said, giving him her hand with weary, child-like trust. "Let me tell the people how bad I have been. Perhaps it will make my heart lighter."
"Not to-night, my darling," he murmured, "you are not quite yourself. We will talk over just what you are to say."
She sat down on the steps in a dazed manner.
"Did you bring your carriage?" asked her lover.
"No, I did not think of it, but I am not tired."
"Poor soul," muttered Captain White. Then he turned to the pale young man at his elbow. "Run for a hack, Cousin Charlie, will you?"
"Are you going to stay with me, Chelda?" whispered Mr. Huntington.
She looked up, her face lighted by a gleam of inextinguishable love. "Yes, Bernal, if you will have me. I fell asleep after dinner and dreamed of my aunt. She told me to trust you."
Captain White exchanged a few words with the clergyman, then rattled down the steps. A few minutes later he rushed into the room where his wife sat gently dropping tears on her death-book.
"Put it away, Hippy,—put it away. The saints in there would all rejoice if they knew. Young Huntington is just bringing Chelda Gastonguay to you and Derrice to comfort, till he marries her. Start a new book, Hippy,—the book of life,—and start it with the sweetest word in the language."