when I saw her placidly darning away, without the slightest
conception, any more than a feather pillow would have, of what this
ridiculous affair with me might mean in future consequences to poor,
innocent little Peggy. But I can only hope the boy has gotten over his
feeling for me, that he has been really changeable, for that would be
infinitely better than the other thing.

Well, I shall not need to go away. Harry Goward has himself solved that
problem. He goes himself to-morrow. He has invented a telegram about a
sick uncle, all according to the very best melodrama. But what I
feared is true--he is still as mad as ever about me. I went down to
the post-office for the evening mail, and was coming home by moonlight,
unattended, as any undesirable maiden aunt may safely do, when the boy
overtook me. I had heard his hurried steps behind me for some time. Up
he rushed just as we reached the vacant lot before the Temple house, and
caught my arm and poured forth a volume of confessions and avowals, and,
in short, told me he did not love Peggy, but me, and he never would love
anybody but me. I actually felt faint for a second. Then I talked. I
told him what a dishonorable wretch he was, and said he might as well
have plunged a knife into an innocent, confiding girl at once as to
have treated Peggy so. I told him to go away and let me alone and write
friendly letters to Peggy, and see if he would not recover his senses,
if he had any to recover, which I thought doubtful; and then when he
said he would not budge a step, that he would remain in Eastridge, if
only for the sake of breathing the same air I did, that he would tell
Peggy the whole truth at once, and bear all the blame which he deserved
for being so dishonorable, I arose to the occasion. I said, "Very well,
remain, but you may have to breathe not only the same air that I do, but
also the same air that the man whom I am to marry does." I declare that
I had no man whatever in mind. I said it in sheer desperation. Then the
boy burst forth with another torrent, and the secret was out.

My brother and my sister-in-law and Grandmother Evarts and the children,
for all I know, have all been match-making for me. I did not suspect it
of them. I supposed they esteemed my case as utterly hopeless, and then
I knew that Cyrus knew about--well, never mind; I don't often mention
him to myself. I certainly thought that they all would have as soon
endeavored to raise the dead as to