"And we'll go and live out at Harlem, in the dear, romantic old house?" Mollie said, with sparkling eyes.
"Yes, if you wish it. I will have it repaired and refurnished immediately, and, while the workmen are about it, we will be enjoying our wedding-tour. For we must be married at once, Mollie," with a comical look.
Mollie blushed and fidgeted, and laughed a little nervous laugh.
"This day fortnight will give you ample time for all the wedding garniture," said the young man. "You hear, Mollie—a fortnight."
Mollie sighed resignedly, "Of course, you will play the tyrant, as usual, and carry me off willy-nilly, if I don't consent. You must have everything your own way, I suppose. And now—I'm dying to know—tell me, who is Sarah Grant?"
"An eminently respectable young woman, and the wife of my foster-brother. She and her husband would do anything under the sun for me. The husband was the coachman who drove you when you were abducted—who witnessed the marriage, and who is driving us now. Sarah's a trump! Didn't she outwit Oleander nicely?"
"How? Oh, Hugh," clasping her hands, "I see it all—the resemblance just puzzled me so. Sarah Grant was Susan Sharpe."
"Of course, she was, and a capital nurse she made. Sarah's worth her weight in gold, and you will tell her so the next time you see her. And now, here we are at Mrs. Watson's, and so good-bye for an hour or two, my little wife."
And Mollie went in, her face radiant, and all the world changed since she had left.
With the "witching hour of candle-light" came Mr. Ingelow again, to spend the evening with his lady-love. He looked a little serious, as Mollie saw.