Lavinia sat rocking quietly back and forth, and stitched away with her colored silks on her tambourine frames, while Marley told her of the fortune Wade Powell had brought them. He told the story briefly, and he tried to tell it simply; he did not comment on Powell’s kindness or generosity, but let his deeds speak for themselves in Powell’s behalf. When he had done, Marley waited for Lavinia’s comment, but she rocked on a moment and then held her tambourine frames at arm’s length to study the sweet pea she was making. When she had done so, she dropped her sewing suddenly into her lap, and looking up, said:

“He thinks everything of you, doesn’t he?”

“I believe he likes me,” Marley said, as modestly as he could put it.

“Who could help it?”

Lavinia looked at Marley, and he leaned over, and took her hands.

“I am glad you can’t, sweetheart,” he said.

“Do you know,” she went on, “I think it is because you have been kind and good to him—just as you are kind and good to every one. His life is lonely; he is an outcast, almost; no one cares for him, and he appreciates your goodness.”

Pity was the utmost feeling she could produce for Wade Powell out of her kindly heart. But Marley, though he could accept her homage to the full without embarrassment, could not acquiesce to this length, and he laughed at her.

“Nonsense, Lavinia,” he said. “You have the thing all topsy-turvy. It is Wade Powell who has been kind to me; it is he and not I who is good to every one. He has a heart brimful of the milk of human kindness. You have no idea, and no one has, of the good he does in a thousand little ways. He tries to hide it all; he acts as if he were ashamed of it, but there are hundreds of people in Macochee who worship him, and would be ready to die for him, if it would help him any. Don’t think he has no friends! He has them by the score—of course, they are all poor; I reckon that’s why they are generally unknown.”

“But isn’t he cruel?”

Marley’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“I mean,” Lavinia said correctively, “isn’t he kind of sarcastic?”

“Well,” Marley admitted, “he is that at times. I think he tries to hide his better qualities; I think he tries to cloak his finer nature with a rough garb. Perhaps it is because he is really so sensitive. But he is, to my mind, a truly great man. He is a sort of tribune of the people.”

“But, Glenn, what about his drinking?”

“Well, that’s the trouble,” Marley said, shaking his head. “If he had let liquor alone he’d have been away up.”

Lavinia was silent a moment, her brow was knit in little wrinkles.

“Glenn,” she said presently, “I have been thinking.”

“Well?”

“That with your influence you might reform him—out of his liking for you, don’t you know?”

She raised her blue eyes. He laughed outright, and then took her face between his two hands.

“You dear little thing!” he said, with the patronage of a lover.

Lavinia regained her dignity.

“But couldn’t you?” she demanded.

“Why, dear heart,” Marley said, “he would think it presumption. I wouldn’t dare.”

Lavinia shook her head in the hopelessness of the reformer, and took up her tambourine frames again with a sigh.

“It’s a pity,” she said, relinquishing the subject with the hope, “it’s such a pity.”

“But you haven’t told me what you think of the scheme.”

“You know, dear, that whatever you think best I think best.”

Marley was disappointed.

“You don’t seem to be very enthusiastic over the prospect,” he complained. “I thought you’d be glad as I to know that I can at last make a place for myself in the world—and a home and a living for you.”

Lavinia looked up.

“I never had any doubt of that, Glenn,” she said simply.

He saw the trust and confidence she had in him, a trust and a confidence he had never felt himself, and had never before been wholly aware of in her. He saw that she had never shared those fears which had so long oppressed him, and into his love there came a devout thankfulness. He felt strong, hopeful, confident, victorious. He had a sudden fancy that it would be like this when they were married; he would sit at his own hearth, with a fire crackling merrily, and the rain and wind beating outside—for the first time he could indulge such a fancy; it allowed him, now that his future was assured, to come up to it and to take hold of it; it became a reality.

The judge was not at home that night. Now and then Marley could hear Mrs. Blair speak a word to Connie and Chad, over their lessons in the sitting-room; school had commenced, and Connie having that year entered the High School had taken on a new dignity, in consequence of which she was treating Chad with a divine patience that brought its own peace into the Blair household.

They talked for a long time of their plans. Marley would take his new place in December when the new county clerk went into office, and he told Lavinia all the advantages of the position. It would extend his acquaintance, it would give him a familiarity with court proceedings that otherwise he could not have acquired in years. He meant to study hard, and be admitted to the bar. They could have a little cottage and live simply and economically; he would save part of his salary, and when he hung out his shingle he would have enough money laid by to support them, modestly, until he could establish himself in a practice. He laid it all before her plainly, convincingly. He was charmed with the practicability of the plan, with its conservatism, its common sense. They might as well be married.

“Can’t we?” he asked. He trembled as he asked; his happiness had never come so close before.

Lavinia dropped her embroidery frames into her lap and looked up at him. The question in her eyes was almost born of fear.

“Right away?” exclaimed Lavinia.

“Well, almost right away,” Marley answered. “Sometime this winter, anyway.”

“This winter! So soon?”

“So soon!” Marley repeated her words, almost in mockery.

“But we mustn’t be married in the winter,” she said, “we’ve always planned to be married in June—our month, you know.”

“What’s the use of waiting?”

“But papa and mama—”

This quick rushing to the parental cover, this clinging to the habit of years struck a jealousy through Marley’s heart. His face fell and he looked hurt.

“Can’t we, dear?” he pleaded.

Lavinia looked at him, and she said shyly:

“If you say so, Glenn.”

They were solemn in their joy and made their plans in detail. They would be married quietly, Lavinia said, and at home. Doctor Marley would perform the ceremony, and Marley was touched by this recognition of his father.

The fall worked a new energy in Marley, and, with the assurance that his labors were now soon to bear fruit, he found that he could study better than ever before. He worked faithfully over his books every morning, and he worked so hard that he felt himself entitled to a portion of each afternoon. He would leave the office at four o’clock. Lavinia would be waiting for him, and they would try to get out of sight before Connie returned from school. She might be expected any moment to come slowly down Ward Street entwined with one of her school-girl friends. They did not like, somehow, to meet Connie. The smile she gave them was apt to be disconcerting. They met smiles in the faces of others they encountered in their walks, but they were of a quality more kindly than Connie’s smile.

They had walked one afternoon to the edge of town where Ward Street climbed a hill and became the road to Mingo. At their feet lay the little fields, in the distance they could see a man plowing with two white horses; off to the right lay the water-works pond, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“What are you thinking of?” Marley said.

“I was thinking that it would be nice to live in the country.”

“I was thinking that very thing myself!” exclaimed Marley. Their eyes met, and they thrilled over this unity in their thoughts. It was marvelous to them, mysterious, prophetic.

“Some day I could buy a farm,” Marley said; “out that way.”

“Yes,” Lavinia replied, “away off there, beyond those low trees. Do you see?”

She pointed, but Marley did not look in the direction of the trees; he looked at her finger. It was so small, so round, so white. He bent forward, and kissed the finger.

“Oh, but you must look where I’m pointing,” said Lavinia.

They drew closely together. Marley took Lavinia’s hand and they stood long in silence.

“We could have a country home there,” Marley said after a while, “with a hedge about it and stables and horses and dogs. It would be close to town; I could go in in the morning and out again in the afternoon.”

“And I could drive you in, and then come for you in the afternoon—when court adjourned.”

“Oh, I would have a man to drive me,” said Marley.

“But couldn’t I ride in beside you?”

“Yes; you could sit beside me, on the back seat; we’d have an open carriage.”

“A victoria!” exclaimed Lavinia. “It would be the only one in Macochee!”

“Is that what they call them?”

“Victorias?”

“Yes.”

“You know, with a low seat behind and a high seat for the driver. You have a green cushion for your feet. You would look so handsome in one, Glenn. You would sit very erect and proud, with your hands on a cane. You would have white hair then.”

“We would be old?” he asked in some dismay.

“No, no,” said Lavinia, trying to reconcile her dreams, “not old exactly. But I dote on white hair. It’s so distinguished for a lawyer with a country home. Of course we’ll have to get old sometime.”

“We’ll grow old together, dear.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “and think of the long years of happiness!”

They stood and gazed, looking down the long vista of years that stretched before them as smooth and peaceful as the white road to Mingo.

A subtile change was passing over the face of the road; shadows were stealing toward it, and it was growing gray. The trees that still were green were darkening to a deeper green, but the colors of those that had changed flamed all the brighter. The sun shone more golden on the shocks of corn, the sky was glowing pink in the west, the water-works pond was glistening as the sun’s shafts struck it more obliquely. A fine powder hung in the peaceful air.

“How beautiful the fall is!” said Lavinia.

“Yes, I love it,” said Marley. “But do you know, dear, that I never liked it before? It always seemed sad to me. But you have taught me to love many things. You don’t know all that you have done for me!”

She stood in her blue dress, with her hands folded before her. Marley looked at her hands, and at her white throat, and at her hair, its brown turned to a golden hue by the clear light; then he looked into her eyes. A sudden emotion, almost religious in its ecstasy, came over him. He bent forward.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Do you know how beautiful you are! I worship you!”

“Don’t, Glenn,” she said, “don’t say that!” The reflection of a superstitious fear lay in her eyes.

“Why?” he said defiantly. “It’s all true. You are my religion.”

“You frighten me,” she said.

Marley laughed.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “there’s nothing to fear. Isn’t our future assured now?”