r to understand. "Your wife?"

"Well--don't you expect to marry me? That's what happens when a girl and
a man love each other."

"Oh--some day--if you're sure you really want an ignorant little girl
like me, brought up in an orphan asylum, who's worked in a shop and
hasn't a penny in the world--except a dollar or two left of Mrs. Sands'
money. A long time from now, when you've thought about it----"

"I've thought of nothing else since we met and parted, and I realized
that you were my life and soul. If you can make up your mind to 'some
day,' it might just as well be to-morrow. Don't you want to console me
for the loss of the only other thing, besides you, I've ever wanted with
all my heart? You do if you love me. The dear old house that was my
father's! You know, when you sent up your name at the Dietz as Miss
O'Reilly, I believed you were my cranky cousin Theresa, come to tell me
she'd changed her mind about selling the house. Why, you owe it to me,
if you care, to make up for that. Your Angel's husband has bribed
Theresa to sell to him. The place has passed away from me forever. But
if you'll marry me to-night I shan't care. In the joy of being
husband--and nurse--to the bravest and dearest mouse in the world I'll
forget everything and be the happiest man on God's earth."

"People don't get married at a few hours' notice."

"Don't they? How long have you lived in the United States, my Irish
colleen?"

"Months. Over a year. But I never discussed marriage."

"I'm jolly glad you didn't. But you'll hear of nothing else till the
knot's tied. We do things quickly over here."

Then the door opened, and the doctor came in.

XXXVII

THE TELEGRAM

Roger Sands had hardly known himself for many days. His wife had read
him aright. At times he was purposely cruel. At times he did wish to see
how much she could bear and not break. Yet if she had broken, he felt
that he could not have helped seizing her in his arms and forgiving her.

While he dressed that night he hoped that she would send for him, or
come to him, and confess that the pearls were gone, that she had given
them to O'Reilly, whom she had once loved, and whom she loved no more.

But she neither sent nor came. She was bluffing it out to the last. He
might have known she would do that, although he had taken her to her
room to give her one more chance to repent. At half-past seven he was
ready, but he waited quietly ten minutes. Then he went to his