During the two hours that they waited for the Reverend Mr. Greer, “the marrying parson,” David and Sally sat stiffly side by side on a horsehair sofa, only their fingers touching shyly, listening to countless romances of eloping couples with which old Mrs. Greer regaled them in a kindly effort to help them pass the tedious time of waiting. Her daughter-in-law, widowed by the death of the only son of the family, trailed weakly in and out of the living room, her big, mournful black eyes devouring David’s magnificent youth and vigor.

“You remind her of Sonny Bob,” Mrs. Greer leaned forward in her arm chair to whisper to David. “Killed in the war he was, and Cora just can’t become reconciled. Seems like the only pleasure she gets out of life now is acting as witness for weddings. And I must say she cries as beautiful and sweet as any bride’s mother could. Some of the eloping brides appreciate it and some don’t, but Cora means well. Once, I recollect, she spoiled a wedding. It seems that the girl’s mother was dead set against this boy, and when Cora started to cry, just like a mother—”

The story went on and on, but Sally heard little of it, for her heart was suddenly desolate with need of her own mother. Lucky girls who had mothers to cry for them at their weddings! Her cold fingers gripped David’s comforting, warm hand spasmodically. Somewhere in the world there was a woman who was her mother, a woman who had not waited for the marriage ceremony before succumbing to just such love as that woman’s unwanted daughter now felt for David.

Understanding and pity for that harassed, shame-stricken girl that her mother must have been just sixteen years ago gushed suddenly into Sally’s heart. If David had not been so fine, so tender, so good—she shivered and clung more tightly to his hand. In a few minutes she would be his wife and safe, safe from Mrs. Stone, the orphans’ home, the reformatory.

“I hear Mr. Greer coming in,” Mrs. Greer beamed upon them and bustled from the room. She returned immediately, a plump hand resting affectionately on the shoulder of a tall, thin, stooped old man, whose sweet, bloodless, wrinkled face glowed with a faint radiance of kindliness and benediction.

“This is little Miss Sally Ford and David Nash, Papa,” Mrs. Greer told him. “They’ve been waiting patiently for two hours to get married. I’ve been entertaining them the best I could with some of our very own romances. I often tell Papa we ought to write stories for the magazines—”

“Well, well!” The “marrying parson” rubbed his beautiful, thin hands together and smiled upon Sally and David. “You’re pretty young, aren’t you? But Mama and I believe in youthful marriages. I was nineteen and she was seventeen when we took the big step, and we’ve never regretted it. You have your license, I presume?”

David’s hand shook noticeably as he drew the precious document from his breast pocket and offered it to the minister. Through old fashioned gold-rimmed spectacles the minister studied the paper briefly, his lips twitching slightly with a smile.

“Well, well, Mama,” he glanced over his spectacles at his beaming wife, “everything seems to be in order. Where is Cora? She’s going to enjoy this wedding enormously. The more she enjoys it, the more she weeps,” he explained twinkling at Sally and David. When Mrs. Greer had left the room, the old minister bent his eyes gravely upon David. “Do you know of any real reason why you two children should not be married, my boy?”

David flushed but his eyes and voice were steady as he answered: “No reason at all, sir. We are both orphans, and we love each other.”

Mrs. Greer and her daughter-in-law entered before the old preacher could ask any further questions, but he seemed to be quite satisfied. Taking a much-worn, limp leather black book from his pocket, he summoned the pair to stand before him. Sally tremblingly adjusted the little dark blue felt hat that fitted closely over the masses of her fine black hair, and smoothed the crisp folds of her new blue taffeta dress.

“Join right hands,” the minister directed.

As Sally placed her icy, trembling little hand in David’s the first of the younger Mrs. Greer’s promised sobs startled her so that she swayed against David, almost fainting. The boy’s left arm went about her shoulders, held her close, as the opening words of the marriage ceremony fell slowly and impressively from the marrying parson’s lips:

“Dearly beloved—”

Peace fell suddenly upon the girl’s heart and nerves. All fear left her; there was nothing in the world but beautiful words which were like a magic incantation, endowing an orphaned girl with respectability, happiness, family, an honored place in society as the wife of David Nash—

A bell shrilled loudly, shattering the beauty and the solemnity of the greatest moment in Sally’s life. Behind her, on the sofa, she heard the faint rustle of Mrs. Greer’s stiff silk skirt, whispers as the two witnesses conferred. The preacher’s voice, which had faltered, went on, more hurried, flustered:

“Do you, David, take this woman—”

Again the bell clamored, a long, shrill, angry demand. The preacher’s voice faltered again, the momentous question left half asked. He looked at his wife over the tap of his spectacles and nodded slightly. Mrs. Greer’s skirts rustled apologetically as she hurried out of the room. Sally forced her eyes to travel upward to David’s stern, set young face; their eyes locked for a moment, Sally’s piteous with fright, then David answered that half-asked question loudly, emphatically, as if with the words he would defeat fate:

“I do!”

A clamor of voices suddenly filled the little entrance hall beyond the parsonage parlor. Sally, recognizing both of the voices, was galvanized to swift, un-Sallylike initiative. Stepping swiftly out of the circle of David’s arm, but still clinging to his hand, she sprang toward the preacher, her eyes blazing, her face pinched with fear and drained of all color.

“Please go on!” she gasped. “Please, Mr. Greer. Don’t let them stop us now! Ask me—‘Do you take this man—? Please, I do, I do!”

“Sally, darling—” David was trying to restrain her, his voice heavy with pity.

“I’m sorry, children,” the old preacher shook his head. “I shall have to investigate this disturbance, but I promise you to continue with the ceremony if there is no legal impediment to your marriage. Just stand where you are—”

The door was flung open and Mrs. Stone, matron of the orphanage, strode into the room, panting, her heavy face red with anger and exertion. She was followed by a flustered, weeping Mrs. Greer and by a small, smartly dressed little figure that halted in the doorway. Even in that first dreadful moment when Sally knew that she was trapped, that the half-performed wedding ceremony would not be completed, she was conscious of that shock of amazement and delight which had always tingled along her nerves whenever she had seen Enid Barr. But why had Enid Barr joined in the cruel pursuit of a luckless orphan whose worst sin had been running away from charity? If David’s arms had not been so tightly about her, she would have tried to run away again—

“Are we too late?” Mrs. Stone demanded in the loud, harsh voice that had been a whip-lash upon Sally Ford’s sensitive nerves for twelve years. “Are they married?”

“I was reading the service when you interrupted, madam,” the Reverend Mr. Greer said with surprising severity. “And I shall continue it if you cannot show just cause why these two young people should not be married. May I ask who you are, madam?”

“Certainly! I am Mrs. Miranda Stone, matron of the State Orphans’ Asylum of Capital City, and Sally Ford is one of my charges, a minor, a ward of the state until her eighteenth birthday. She is only sixteen years old and cannot be married without the permission of her guardians, the trustees of the orphanage. Is it clear that you cannot go on with the ceremony?” she concluded in her hard, brisk voice.

“Is this true, Sally?” the old man asked Sally gently.

“Yes,” she nodded, then laid her head wearily and hopelessly upon David’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Stone,” David began to plead with passionate intensity, one of his hands trembling upon Sally’s bowed head, “for God’s sake let us go on with this marriage! I love Sally and she loves me. I have never harmed her and I never will. It’s not right for you to drag her back to the asylum, to spend two more years of dependence upon charity. I can support her, I’m strong, I love her—”

“Will all of you kindly leave the room and let me talk with Sally?” Mrs. Stone cut across his appeal ruthlessly. “I may as well tell you, Mr. Greer, that my friend here, Mrs. Barr, a very rich woman, intends to adopt this girl and provide her with all the advantages that wealth makes possible.

“She has been hunting for Sally for weeks, and it is only through her persistence and the power which her wealth commands that we have been able to prevent this ridiculous marriage today.”

“We shall be glad to let you talk privately with the young couple,” the old minister answered with punctilious politeness. “Come, Mama, Cora!”

“Will you please leave the room also, Mr. Nash?” Mrs. Stone went on ruthlessly, without taking time to acknowledge the old man’s courtesy.

Sally’s arms clung more tightly to David. “He’s going to stay, Mrs. Stone,” she gasped, amazed at her own temerity. “If you don’t let me marry David now, I shall marry him when I am eighteen. I don’t want to be adopted. I only want David—”

“I think the boy had better stay,” Enid Barr’s lovely voice, strangely not at all arrogant now, called from the doorway.

When the minister and his wife and daughter-in-law had left the room, Enid Barr softly closed the door against which she had been leaning, as if she had little interest in the drama taking place, and walked slowly toward David and Sally, who were still in each other’s arms. Gone from her small, exquisite face was the look of aloof indifference, and in its place were embarrassment, wistful appeal, tenderness and to Sally’s bewilderment, the most profound humility.

“Oh, Sally, Sally!” The beautiful contralto voice was husky with tears. “Can’t you guess why I want you, why I’ve hunted you down like this? I’m your mother, Sally.”

“My mother?” Sally echoed blankly. Then incredulous joy floated her pale little face with a rosy glow. “My mother? David—Mrs. Stone—oh, I can’t think!”

David’s arms had dropped slowly from about her shoulders and she stood swaying slightly. “But—you can’t be my mother!” she gasped, shaking her head in childish negation. “You’re not old enough. I’m sixteen—”

“And I’m thirty-three,” Enid Barr said gently. “There’s no mistake, Sally, my darling. I’m really your mother, and I’d like, more than anything in the world, for you to let me kiss you now and to hear you call me ‘Mother’.” She had advanced the few steps that separated them and was holding out her delicate, useless-looking little hands with such humility and timidity as no one who knew Enid Barr would have believed her capable of.

Sally’s hands went out involuntarily, but before their fingers could intertwine, Enid flung her arms about the girl and held her smotheringly close for a moment. Then she raised her small, slight body on tiptoes and pressed her quivering lips softly against Sally’s cheek. At the caress, twelve years of loneliness and mother-need rushed across the girl’s mind like a frantically unwinding spool of film.

“Oh, I’ve wanted a mother so terribly! Twelve years in the orphanage—Oh, why did you put me there?” she cried brokenly. “It’s awful—not having anyone of your own—no family—and now, when I have David to be my family, and I don’t need you—so much—you come—Why didn’t you come before? Why? Why did you put me there?”

Her words were incoherent, and at the bitter reproach in them Enid tried to hold her more closely, but Sally, scarcely knowing what she did, struck the small, clinging arms from her shoulders and whirled upon David, her mouth twisting, tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t want anyone but you now, David. Don’t let them separate us, David. We’re half married already! Make the preacher come back and finish marrying us, David—”

Enid Barr, looked wonderingly upon her arms, as if expecting to see upon them the marks of her daughter’s blows. A gust of anger swept over her, leaving her beautiful face quite white and darkening her eyes until they were almost as deep a blue as Sally’s.

“You cannot marry the boy, Sally! I’m sorry that almost my first words to you should be a reminder of my authority over you as your mother. Come here, Sally!” But almost in the moment of its returning the arrogance for which she was noted dropped from her, and humility and grief took its place. “Please forgive me, Sally. It’s just that I’m jealous of your love for this boy and grieved that you want to leave me for him. But—oh, why should you love me? God knows I’ve done nothing yet to make you love me! I can’t blame you for hating and reproaching me—”

“Oh!” Sally turned from the shelter of David’s arms and took an uncertain step toward her mother, pity fighting with rebellion and bitterness in her overcharged heart. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barr—Mother—”

“I think you’d better tell her your story as you told it to me, Mrs. Barr.” Mrs. Stone could keep silent no longer. “Now, Sally, I want you to listen to every word your mother says and bear in mind that she is your mother and that she has been hunting for you for weeks, her heart full of love for you because you were her child.”

For twelve years Sally had obeyed every command uttered in that harsh, emphatic voice and she obeyed now, allowing herself to be led by Mrs. Stone to the sofa. Enid Barr took her seat on one side of the girl and David without asking permission of either of the two older women who watched him with hostile, jealous eyes, took his place on the other side, his hand closing tightly over Sally’s.

Jealously, Enid Barr reached for the girl’s other hand and held it against her cheek for a moment before she began her story, her contralto voice low and controlled at first. Mrs. Stone sat rigidly erect in an old-fashioned morris chair, her lips folded with an expression of grim patience, as if she regretted the necessity of once more hearing a story which affronted her Puritanical principles.

“I was just your age, Sally,” Enid began quietly, “just sixteen, when I met the man who became your father. I was Enid Halsted then. He was fifteen years older than I. I thought I—loved him—very much. He was—very handsome.”

Her eyes flickered toward the soft tendrils of black hair that showed under the brim of Sally’s little blue felt hat. “My father, a proud man as well as a very rich one, forbade me to see the man, discharged him, but—it was too late.”

She interrupted herself suddenly, leaning across Sally to challenge David with eyes which were again arrogant. “I’m permitting you to hear all this, Mr. Nash, because I know that Sally would not listen if I sent you from the room. But I must ask your promise never to tell anyone what you hear today—”

“It concerns Sally, Mrs. Barr, and anything that concerns her, either her past, present or future—” his eyes flicked a tiny smile at Sally as he repeated the familiar phrase from Gus, the barker’s ballyhoo—“is sacred to me.”

“Thank you,” Enid said coldly, and was immediately punished by Sally’s attempt to withdraw her hand. “I am sure I can trust you, David,” Enid added, swallowing her pride, so that Sally’s fingers would twine about her own again. “My mother was dead, had been dead for more than five years. I had to tell my father. There’s no use in my going into all that happened then,” she shivered, her free hand covering her eyes for a moment. “He—saw me through it, because he loved me more than I deserved. No one knew, for he arranged for me to go to a private sanitarium, where no one but the doctor knew my real name. After my baby was born my father told me it had been born dead, and I—I was glad at first. But afterwards I could hardly bear to look at a baby—I mustn’t try to make you sorry for me,” she cried brokenly, flicking her handkerchief at a tear that was sliding down her cheek.

Enid Barr drew a deep, quivering breath and cuddled Sally’s hand against her cheek. “Father took me to Europe for a year and when we returned, I made my debut, as if nothing had happened. I was eighteen then, and thought I never wanted to be married, but when I met Courtney Barr my second season I changed my mind; when I was twenty I married him. I’ve been married thirteen years and—there’s never been another baby. There couldn’t be—because of the first one—you, Sally—though I didn’t know, didn’t dream you were alive.”

“Poor Mother!” Sally whispered, tears slipping unnoticed down her own cheeks. It was all right—all right! Her mother hadn’t meant to abandon her, even if she had been ashamed of bearing her—

“My father died when I was twenty-one, just four years after you were born, Sally. He died suddenly, and the lawyers couldn’t find a will. He’d hidden it too well. Everything came to me, of course, all that he had meant you to have as well as my own share—”

“He—my grandfather—sent Mrs. Ford money.” Sally cried suddenly. “Gramma Bangs told me she used to get money orders and that when the money stopped coming, Mrs. Ford had to put me in the orphanage, because she was sick—I understand now!”

“Yes, he sent her a liberal allowance for you, on condition that she never tell who you were and that she should never bring you to New York. She did not herself know who you were, who the man was who sent the money, who your mother was,” Enid Barr went on, her voice more controlled now that she had passed over the telling of her own shame.

“It was not until May of this year that I found out all these things. A connoisseur of antiques was looking at my father’s desk and accidentally discovered a secret drawer, containing his will and a painstaking record of the whole affair. I told no one but Court—my husband—and he agreed with me that I must try to find you at once. He was—wonderful—about it all. Of course I had told him, or rather, my father had told him the truth about me before I married him, but Court thought, as I did, that the baby had died. It was a great shock to him, but he’s been wonderful.”

Her voice had the same quality in it as she spoke of Courtney Barr that enriched Sally’s voice whenever she spoke David’s name, and the girl could not help wondering why her mother, who had suffered and loved, could not understand the depth of her love for David. Maybe she would—in time—

“I found Mrs. Nora Ford’s address among the papers, of course, and I went to Stanton immediately, but as I had feared, I found that she had left there years before, and that no one in the neighborhood had the least idea where she had gone. One old lady—Mrs. Bangs—said that Nora had had a daughter, Sally, and I knew that she meant my daughter. I spent weeks and a great deal of money searching for some trace of Nora Ford and Sally Ford, but it was useless. I had almost lost hope of finding either of you when I read that terrible story in the papers about Sally Ford and David Nash—”

“Carson lied,” David interrupted quietly. “His story was false from beginning to end. There was absolutely nothing between Sally and me but friendship. I knocked him through the window because he called her vile names and was threatening to send her back to the orphanage in disgrace, when she had done nothing wrong except work herself almost to death on his farm.”

“Thank you, David. I’m glad to hear the truth. I was sure of it the first time I looked into my daughter’s eyes. But if it had not been for that story in the paper I would not be here today, so I’m almost grateful to Carson for his vileness. I went to the orphanage, interviewed Mrs. Stone and after I had satisfied myself that Sally was really my daughter, I told her all that I’m telling you now and asked her to help me find her. That afternoon I took the children to the carnival, because it was the only way I could do anything for you, my darling.”

“And Betsy recognized me!” Sally cried. “If Gus hadn’t been trying so hard to protect David and me from the police—”

“Exactly!” Enid smiled at her through tears. “You’ve been running away from your mother ever since, not from the police! And what a chase you’ve led us, darling! That enormous old man, Winfield Bybee, had convinced us that we were on the wrong track, that Betsy had been mistaken, and the carnival had left town when Mrs. Stone got a letter from a woman who said she’d been with the carnival—”

“Nita!” Sally and David exclaimed together. So she had kept her promise to avenge herself, Sally reflected. A queer revenge—restoring an orphaned girl to her mother who was a rich woman. Sally smiled. But—wasn’t she avenged after all? Wouldn’t Nita congratulate herself on having separated David and Sally, no matter what good luck she had inadvertently brought upon Sally by doing so?

At the sudden realization of what this story meant to herself and David, Sally withdrew her arm from about her mother’s shoulders and flung herself upon David’s breast.

Very gently David unclasped Sally’s hands, that locked convulsively about his neck. His eyes were dark with pain as Sally, hurt and resentful, shrank from him.

“You’re glad to get out of it!” she accused him. “You were only marrying me because you were sorry for me. You won’t fight for me now, because you’re glad to be free—”

“Sally! You don’t know what you’re saying! You know I love you, that I’ve thought of nothing but you since we met on Carson’s farm. Of course I want to marry you, and will be proud and happy to do so, if your mother will consent.”

Sally’s face bloomed again. She seized her mother’s hands and held them hard against her breast as she pleaded: “You see, Mother? Oh, please let us go on with our marriage! David and I will love you always, be so grateful to you—Listen, Mother! You’ll have a son as well as a daughter—”

“Don’t be absurd, Sally!” Enid commanded brusquely. “When you were indeed a girl alone, with no family, no prospects, nothing, a marriage with David would undoubtedly have been the best thing for you. But now—it’s ridiculous! This boy has nothing. You would be a burden upon him, a yoke about his young neck that should not be bowed down by responsibility for several years. You’re both under a cloud. I understand that he cannot return to college or go back to his grandfather until this trouble is cleared up. What did you two children expect to do, once you were married?”

“I expected to work at anything I could get to do,” David answered with hurt young dignity. “I have brains, two years of college education, a strong body, and I love Sally.”

Enid Barr leaned across Sally and touched David’s clenched fist with the caressing tips of her fingers. “You’re a good boy, David and Sally, the orphan, the girl alone, would have been lucky to marry you. But you understand, don’t you? She’s my daughter, will be the legally adopted daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Courtney Barr. Anyone in New York could tell you what that means. She will have every advantage that money can offer her—finishing school or college, if she wants to go to college; travel, exquisite clothes, a place in society, a mother and father who will adore her, a girlhood rich with all the pleasures that every normal girl craves. Help me to give her these things, David, things you would give her if you could!”

“This is all nonsense!” Mrs. Stone spoke up sharply. “You know perfectly well, Mrs. Barr, that these two foolish children can’t get married without your consent. I, for one think you’re wasting your time. Simply put your foot down and take your daughter home with you.”

Sally flushed angrily and struggled to rise, but David held her back. “You’ll have to go with her, darling. Remember how you’ve always wanted a mother? You have one now, and she wants you with her, wants to make up to you for all you’ve missed.”

As only mute rebellion answered him, he wisely changed his tactics: “Do you think you could ever be really happy, darling, knowing that you had hurt your mother, cheated her of the child for whom she has grieved all these years? She’ll never have another child, Sally, and she needs you as much as you need her.”

When Sally’s mouth began to quiver with new tears, Enid Barr took the girl in her arms. At last Sally raised her head and searched her mother’s face with piteous intensity. “Do you really need me?” she cried. “You’ll love me—be a real mother to me? You don’t just want me because it’s your duty?”

Tears clouded the clear blue of Enid’s eyes as she answered softly: “I’ll be a mother to you, Sally, not because it’s my duty, but because I already love you and will love you more and more. If I had searched the whole world over for the girl I would have liked to have as my daughter, I could not have found one who is as sweet and pretty and dear as you are. I’m proud of my daughter, and I shall hope to make her proud of me.”

“Then—I’ll go with you,” Sally capitulated, but she added quickly, “If David will promise not to love any other girl until I’m old enough to marry him.”

Over Sally’s head, cradled against her mother’s breast, Enid Barr and David Nash exchanged a long look, as if measuring each other’s strength. David knew then, and Enid meant him to know, that Sally’s mother had far different plans for her daughter than any that could possibly include David Nash.

“I’ll always love you, Sally,” David said gravely, as he rose from the sofa.

Sally struggled out of her mother’s clasp and sprang to the boy’s side just as he was reaching to the little center table for his hat. “Where are you going, David? Don’t leave me yet! Oh, David, I can’t bear to let you go! How can I write you—where? Tell me, David! Oh, I love you so I feel like I’ll die if you leave me!”

Defiant of the tight-lipped disapproval of Mrs. Stone and of the anxious signal which Enid’s blue eyes were flashing him, David put his arms about Sally and held her close, while he bent his head to kiss her.

“You can write me here, general delivery. I’ll stay here for a while, I think, until I can make plans—”

“My husband is in Capital City now, David,” Enid interrupted eagerly. “I am going to have him intercede with the authorities for you. You can return to Capital City as soon as you like. There’ll be no trouble, I promise you. It is the only thing we can do to repay you for your great kindness toward—our daughter.”

“Then you can go back to college, David,” Sally rejoiced, her eyes shining through tears. “And when you’ve graduated and—and gotten your start, we can be married, can’t we?”

“If you still want me, Sally darling,” David answered gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Barr. You’ll—you’ll try to make Sally happy, won’t you?”

“I promise you she’ll be happy, David,” Enid answered, giving him her hand. “May I speak with you alone a moment?” she added impulsively, and linking her arm in his drew him toward the door that opened into the little foyer hall.

“David! You’re not going? Without telling me goodby?” Sally cried, stumbling blindly after them.

“Goodby, my darling.” He put his arm about her shoulders and laid his cheek against her hair as he murmured in a low, shaken voice: “I’ll be loving you—always!”

When the door had closed upon her mother and her almost-husband, Sally did a surprising thing: she went stumbling toward Mrs. Stone, and dropped upon her knees before that majestic, rigid figure which she had feared for twelve years.

When Enid Barr returned a few minutes later, two round spots of color burning in her cheeks, she found her daughter in the orphanage matron’s lap, cuddled there like a small child, trustfully sobbing out her grief.