She got back into bed, exclaiming to herself with great
emphasis:
"There, now, fight it out among yerselves."
When the minister stepped quickly inside the little
kitchen, closing the door hurriedly behind him to prevent
the invasion of the cat (of which there wasn't one and
never had been any), he beheld a very busy and beautiful
young woman sifting flour into a baking-dish.
"Mary!" he almost shouted, hardly believing his senses.
He recovered himself instantly, and explained his errand,
but the pallor of his face was unmistakable.
When Mary handed him the cup of water she saw that his
hand was shaking; but she returned to her baking with
the greatest composure.
The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the
door in vain.
"Come out this way," Mary said as sweetly as if she really
wanted him to go.
She tried to open the outside door, also in vain. Mrs.
McGuire had secured it from the outside with a clothes-line
prop and a horse nail.
The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire's work
held good. Then the absurdity of the position struck them
both, and the little house rang with their laughter--
laughter that washed away the heartaches of the dreary
days before.
The minister's reserve was breaking down.
"Mary," he said, taking her face between his hands, "are
you going to marry Horace Clay?"
"No," she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest
light in hers that ever comes into a woman's face.
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