The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the door in vain.
"Come out this way," Mary said as sweetly as if she really wanted him to go.
She tried to open the outside door, also in vain. Mrs. McGuire had secured it from the outside with a clothes-line prop and a horse nail.
The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire's work held good. Then the absurdity of the position struck them both, and the little house rang with their laughter—laughter that washed away the heartaches of the dreary days before.
The minister's reserve was breaking down.
"Mary," he said, taking her face between his hands, "are you going to marry Horace Clay?"
"No," she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest light in hers that ever comes into a woman's face.
"Well, then," he said, as he drew her to him, "you are going to marry me."
The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled back and the sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into the kitchen. The teakettle, too, on the stove behind them, threw up its lid and burst into a thunder of bubbles.
The next time they tried the door it yielded, Mrs. McGuire having made a second barefoot journey.