“I’ll not leave you to guess my secret the way you did me yours, dear Curly, but right prompt I’ll set down adore (with one D) and say you hit the bull’s-eye that time without expecting to. But if I was saying it I would not use any French words sweetheart, but plain American. And the word would be l-o-v-e, without any D’s. Now you have got the straight of it, my dear. I love you—love you—love you, from the crown of that curly hear to the soles of your little feet. What’s more, you have got to love me, too, since I am,
“Your future husband,
“BUCKY O’CONNOR.
“P. S.—And now, Curly, you know my first-rate reasons for not meaning to get shot up by any of these Mexican fellows.”
So the letter ran, and it went to her heart directly as rain to the thirsty roots of flowers. He loved her. Whatever happened, she would always have that comfort. They might kill him, but they could not take away that. The words of an old Scotch song that Mrs. Mackenzie sang came back to her:
“The span o’ life’s nae large eneugh,
Nor deep enough the sea,
Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,
To part my love frae me.”
No, they could not part their hearts in this world or the next, and with this sad comfort she flung herself on the rough bed and sobbed. She would grieve still, but the wildness of her grief and despair was gone, scattered by the knowledge that however their troubles eventuated they were now one in heart.
She was roused after a long time by the sound of the huge key grating in the lock. Through the opened door a figure descended, and by an illuminating swing of the turnkey’s lantern she saw that it was Bucky. Next moment the door had closed and they were in each other’s arms. Bucky’s stubborn pride, the remembrance of the riches which of a sudden had transformed his little partner into an heiress and set a high wall of separation between them, these were swept clean away on a great wave of love which took Bucky off his feet and left him breathless.
“I had almost given you up,” she cried joyfully.
Again he passed his hand across her face. “You’ve been crying, little pardner. Were you crying on account of me?”
“On account of myself, because I was afraid I had lost you. Oh, Bucky, isn’t it too good to be true?”