to
them after they were seated in the ramshackle little vehicle. "I'd go on
with you and help you light up, but I'm anxious to see how my old lady
is. She's sick abed, you know, and will be worrying about the train
being late."

The negro driver on the seat outside started his horse, and the cab
trundled through the darkness of the unlighted streets. They were now
wholly alone for the first time since their marriage, and it seemed
quite natural to him to put his arm around her and draw her head to his
shoulder. Another moment and he had kissed her.

"I wonder," he asked, almost beneath his breath, that the driver might
not hear--"I wonder if you are happy?"

She started to speak, but decided not to do so. Her reply consisted of a
voluntary lifting of her hand to his neck, the raising of her lips to
his, after which she nestled back on his shoulder and was silent.

He also started to speak, but there was nothing to say, and with her
hand in one of his they sat still and silent till the cab stopped at the
gate of the cottage. The driver opened the door and John helped Tilly
out. He tipped the man, and he drove away as they entered the gate.
John opened the door and lighted the gas in the diminutive hall. Tilly
had never seen a gas-jet before, and he explained its use, and the
danger of leaving it open when unlighted. From the little hall they went
into the parlor, then into the dining-room and kitchen, and thence to
the bedroom.

"Sam's wife has swept and cleaned the whole house," John said,
appreciatively. "It is as clean as a new pin."

"I knew some good housekeeper had been over it," Tilly said, giving free
vent to her delight over everything. "I didn't dream, from what you
said, that it would be as nice as this," she declared. "Why, it is
simply wonderful! But you say you think Mrs. Cavanaugh looked after it.
Then--then you don't think that your mother--" She hesitated, and with a
faint shadow in her face she broke off and stood looking at the floor.

"No." There was a companion shadow on his face as he answered, rather
lamely, she thought. "She'd never think of it--even if--if she was
expecting us."

"Not expecting us?" Tilly said, gropingly. "Then she doesn't know. You
didn't write to her that we were to be married?"

"No"--John's glance wavered as he slowly released the word--"I didn't
write her. I didn't care whether she knew it or not."

"I think I understand now," Tilly said to herself. "They have ha