Blushing furiously she turned away. Her father got to his feet, stood looking after her a moment with something very tender coming into his eyes, then took a step toward her and gathered her into his arms.

VIII.--ON ACCOUNT OF THE TEA-KETTLE

"This is the nineteenth day of August," observed Anthony Robeson. "We finished furnishing the house for my future bride on the third day of the month. Over two weeks have gone by since then. The place must need dusting."

He glanced casually at the figure in white which sat just above him upon the step of the great porch at the back of the Marcy country house. It was past twilight, the moon was not yet up, and only the glow from a distant shaded lamp at the other end of the porch served to give him a hint as to the expression upon his companion's face.

"I'm beginning to lie awake nights," he continued, "trying to remember just how my little home looks. I can't recall whether we set the tea-kettle on the stove or left it in the tin-closet. Can you think?"

"You put it on the stove yourself," said Juliet. "You would have filled it if Auntie Dingley hadn't told you it would rust."

Anthony swerved about upon the heavy oriental rug, which covered the steps, until his back rested against the column; he clasped his arms about one knee, and inclined his head at the precise angle which would enable him to study continuously the shadowy outlines of the face above him, shot across with a ruby ray from the lamp. "I wish I could recollect," he pursued, "whether I left the porch awning up or down. It has rained three times in the two weeks. It ought not to be down."

"I'm sure it isn't," Juliet a.s.sured him. There was a hint of laughter in her voice.

"It was rather absurd to put up that awning at all, I suppose. But when you can't afford a roof to your piazza, and compromise on an awning instead, you naturally want to see how it is going to look, and you rush it up. Besides, I think there was a strong impression on my mind that only a few days intervened before our occupancy of the place. It shows how misled one can be."

There was no reply to this observation, made in a depressed tone. After a minute Anthony went on.

"These cares of the householder--they absorb me. I'm always wondering if the lawn needs mowing, and if the new roof leaks. I get anxious about the blinds--do any of them work loose and swing around and bang their lives out in the night? Have the neighbours' chickens rooted up that row of hollyhock seeds? Then those books I placed on the shelves so hurriedly.

Are any of them by chance upside down? Is Volume I. elbowed by Volume II.

or by Volume VIII.? And I can't get away to see. Coming up here every Sat.u.r.day night and tearing back every Sunday midnight takes all my time."

"You might spend next Sunday in the new house."

"Alone?"

"Of course. You have so many cares they would keep you from getting lonely."

Anthony made no immediate answer to this suggestion, beyond laughing up at his companion in the dim light for an instant, then growing immediately sober again. But presently he began upon a new aspect of the subject.

"Juliet, are we to be married in church?"

"Tony!--I don't know."

"But what do you think?"

"I--don't think."

"What! Do you mean that?"

"No-o."

"Of course you don't. Well--what about it?"

"I don't know."

"Are we to have a big wedding?"

"Do you want one?"

"I--but that's not the question. Do you want a big wedding?"

She hesitated an instant. Then she answered softly, but with decision: "No."

Anthony drew a long breath. "Thank the Lord!" he said devoutly.

"Why?" she asked in some surprise.

"I've never exactly understood why the boys I've been best man for were so miserable over the prospect of a show wedding--but I know now. A runaway marriage appeals to me now as it never did before. I want to be married--tremendously--but I want to get it over."

A soft laugh answered him. "We'll get it over."

Anthony sat up suddenly. "Will we?" he asked with eagerness. "When?"

"I didn't say 'when'!"

"Juliet--when are you going to say it?"

"Why, Tony--dear----"

"That's right--put in the 'dear,'" he murmured. "I've heard mighty few of 'em yet, and they sound great to me----"

"We've been engaged only two weeks--"

"And two days----"

"And the little house isn't spoiling, even though you're not sure about the tea-kettle and the awning. I--you don't want to hurry things----"

"Don't I!"--rebelliously.

"If I'm very good and say 'Christmas'----"

"'Christmas!'--Great Caesar!"

"But, Tony----"

"Now see here--" he leaned forward and stared up at her, without touching her--he was as yet allowed few of the lover's favours and prized them the more for that--"do you think our case is just like other people's? Here I've been waiting for you all my days--waiting and waiting, and tortured all the time by suspense. Then I lived that month of July with my heart in my mouth--you'll never know what you put me through those days, talking and jollying about 'Eleanor Langham,' and never for one instant, until just that last day, giving me the smallest pinch of hope that it was anything to you except just what it pretended to be. Then--I've been a long time without a home--and the little house--sweetheart--it looks like Heaven to me. Must I stay outside till Christmas--when everything's all ready? Confound it--I don't want to play the pathetic string, and the Lord knows I'm happy as a fellow can be who's got the desire of his life.

But----"

A warm hand came gently upon his hair, and for joy at the touch he fell silent. Once he turned his head and put his lips against the white sleeve as it fell near, and looked up an instant with eyes whose expression the person above him felt rather than saw through the subdued light. By and by she took up the conversation.

"So you are rejoiced that I don't want a great wedding?"