“Oh, what's that?” she asked.
“It's a new kind of pen. I got it for a notice in the Free Press.”
“Is Henry Bird going to edit the paper?”
“I don't know, and I don't care,” answered Bartley.
“I'll go out and get an envelope, and ask the landlord what's the quickest way to get the letter to your father.”
He took up his hat, but she laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, send for him!” she said.
“Are you afraid I sha'n't come back?” he demanded, with a laughing kiss. “I want to see him about something else, too.”
“Well, don't be gone long.”
They parted with an embrace that would have fortified older married people for a year's separation. When Bartley came back, she handed him the leaf she had torn out of his book, and sat down beside him while he read it, with her arm over his shoulder.
“Dear father,” the letter ran, “Bartley and I are married. We were married an hour ago, just across the New Hampshire line, by the Rev. Mr. Jessup. Bartley wants I should let you know the very first thing. I am going to Boston with Bartley to-night, and, as soon as we get settled there, I will write again. I want you should forgive us both; but if you wont forgive Bartley, you mustn't forgive me. You were mistaken about Bartley, and I was right. Bartley has told me everything, and I am perfectly satisfied. Love to mother.