"Dinners, and suppers, and breakfas's—just us two by ourselves," Allen said. "And the presents. My!"
"Well, and company," she reminded him, "that's what I want. The girls in to tea in our own house."
"Yes," he assented. "Right away?" he wanted to know.
"No," she said, "not right away, Silly! We've got to buy curtains and things. I never thought I'd have so many presents," she went on happily. "They's two water pitchers alike. Bess says I can change hers. We'll take it to the City"—she gave a little bounce on the skirt box—"and see a show, a really, truly show."
"Sure we will," said he, magnificently. "And I'll take you to the place I told you about—where I got picked up."
The little bride nodded, her eyes softening almost maternally. It was as if that story were her own, the story of Allen, the little stray child picked up on the streets of the City by that good woman whom Chris had never seen. But the name of Sarah Ernestine was like a charm to Chris, for the woman had been to Allen father and mother both.
Chris bent down swiftly to his hands, closed over her own, and kissed them.
"Oh, Allen," she said, with a curious wistfulness, "will you always, always be just like you are now?"
"Well, I should say I would," he answered gently. "They's nobody like you anywheres, Chris. Mis' Chris, Mis' Allen Martin."