Ambrose was bowing from right to left, waving his hat in joyous circles
of greeting, while the girl clung with one hand to an end of his coat
and with the other clutched her paper-flower bouquet.

When the gig had turned the corner into Linden street and was moving on
toward the rose cottage the news of its approach had preceded it, for
the wooden sidewalk close by was lined and there in the forefront stood
Susan Barrows, her hands on her hips and her bunches of corkscrew curls
bobbing.

"Where on earth did you find _that_ girl, Ambrose Thompson?" she called
out as soon as the couple were in hailing distance.

Ambrose drove closer. "I didn't _find_ her, Miss Susan," he answered,
lying like a saint.

Mrs. Barrows' eyes bored like old gimlets sharpened from long use.
"She's too young to be your housekeeper, and she ain't ugly," she said.
"The town'll talk."

But now Liza had stopped of her own accord in front of home, and
Ambrose, letting go of his reins, put his arm about the girl. Under the
new poke bonnet her face was pale except for the scarlet of her lips and
her dark eyes that never left their refuge.

The sensitive point to her companion's long nose quivered. Coming toward
them he could see Miner's six pink-and-white, blond sisters, and in
their wake the dark little man. Miner was walking like a man at a
funeral, with his head bowed, and that he did not wear a band of crepe
upon his arm was only that he had lacked opportunity; everything else
suggested a pall. At the same instant, round the corner of the cottage,
trotted Moses, waving his tail and wearing a smile of forgiveness. One
look, and ignoring his master's friendly whistle, the little dog
disappeared, not to be seen again for three days.

Silently Ambrose lifted the stranger down to the boardwalk and with his
arm still about her turned to face Susan. Perhaps there was something of
appeal in the familiar solemnity of his gaze and in his whimsical drawl:

"We'll let the town talk, Susan, won't we, or it'll bust?" he replied
quietly. "No, ma'am, she ain't my hired housekeeper; no ma'am, she
ain't no relation of mine; that is, no born blood kin." With this he
began leading Sarah to the shelter of his own yard and, drawing her in,
closed the gate.

"But we're pretty closely related, Susan." Purposely Ambrose's voice was
raised. He then took a few irresistibly jubilant steps backward and
forward, swinging the girl with him. "She's my wife!"

P