# Mistress Madcap Surrenders/Chapter 17

FORSOOTH, nothing nice ever happens at our place any more!" complained Mehitable fretfully, pushing forward her sunbonnet to shade her eyes as she peered down through the blinding sunshine at Charity.
The younger girl, squatting back upon her heels and shaded by the tall corn stalks growing all about her, looked up with a smile.
"What d'ye want to happen?" she asked lazily.
"Oh, anything, Cherry!" Mehitable's tone was impatient. "Isn't that stuff almost ready to pour? Suz, it be hot out here in this field!"
Charity bent over the melting lead which, in a pot suspended from three iron rods, was being made ready for the bullet molds. She was trying to smother and spread the smoke from the fire and, of the two girls, had the most right to be short-tempered, for her task was not a pleasant one. As soon as she attempted to direct the smoke, the fire smoldered angrily and threatened to go out. Yet she did not dare to let its telltale signal rise from ​the cornfield. The women of those days chose cornfields as splendid places to make bullets, for the tall stalks hid them, and they were not apt to be surprised by the British, as they might have been in their kitchens.
"But, Hitty, since the war started, it has been nice not to have anything happen, for so much of it has been most unpleasant!" Charity reminded her gently. "Besides, it has not been overly many weeks that ye were in the midst o' excitement at Springfield!"
Mehitable stood, slender and tall, in the sunshine. "Oh, that was most glorious!" she cried. "We could almost see from the Sow's Back—see our men drive back the enemy, and as for hearing—why, the Widow Ball told me later that she sat in her kitchen doorway and listened to the noise o' battle all day long, it only dying away toward sunset! And she be away over this way, miles from Springfield! Then, toward sunset, home came our men, limping, wounded, but triumphant." She looked down suddenly at the younger girl who, in turn, was staring up at her, entranced. "Cherry, I would not live i' any other time but this an I could!" she ended solemnly.
Charity, moved in spite of herself by her sister's ringing words, fell to her task of trying to smother the smoke once more. "I don't know, Hitty," she said presently, in a low tone, "I am tired o't! I ​like not noise o' battles and wounded men limping home!"
"But suppose they did not limp home!" said Mehitable with a laugh. "Suppose they came not at all! Ye would like that less, I'll warrant. Mistress Ball was glad enow to have her three sons return to her, limping or otherwise!"
"Nay, Hitty, I meant not that—I—I——" stammered Charity, conscience-stricken. "Ye know I did not——"
"I know ye are a dear, silly goose," interrupted Mehitable, "and that the lead be ready to ladle into the molds!"
And the two fell to their wartime task. After all the lead had been used, they stamped out part of the fire, threw earth over the rest of it, and pushed the molds containing the cooling bullets back among the thick-growing corn stalks, out of sight. Then, chatting and laughing, they sauntered slowly back to the Condit farmhouse.
Rounding a corner of the building, however, they stopped and stared. Hitched to a walnut tree beside the road were two horses, and company was rare on that country road.
"It looks like John's horse!" exclaimed Mehitable, hurrying her steps.
"Aye, it be John's horse!" echoed Charity happily.
They entered the kitchen in breathless haste, ​though they had to stop and blink upon the threshold from that blindness which follows exposure to overbright sunshine and entrance into a darkened room. But as her blurring vision cleared Mehitable sprang forward.
"Nancy! Nancy!" she cried and was locked in the arms of John Condit's betrothed.
"Here, here, Hitty," broke in his voice laughingly, "save some o' the hugs for me, lass!"
"But it—it—has been so long since we saw ye, Nancy!" stammered Mehitable, giving her brother a brief peck upon his cheek and turning back delightedly to the pretty lady who, smiling and blushing, was lovingly greeting Charity. "How long are ye going to stay this time?"
For answer, John Condit and his mother, who was beaming from her chair near by, exchanged happy glances. Then John looked meaningly at Mistress Livingston. "Tell her, Nancy!" he commanded gently.
Mistress Nancy looked up, looked down, blushed, and finally threw her arms again around Mehitable. "I be going to stay for ever this time!" she whispered softly.
"For ever!" Mehitable stared. "Will—will your father and mother let ye?"
"Aye." Mistress Nancy's eyes met those of the tall officer who was looking at her over his mother's chair. "You see, there is to be a wedding here ​this morrow," she said innocently. "At least, so I've heard!"
"A wedding!" Mehitable looked more and more bewildered. Afterward, she never would admit her stupidity, blandly stating in the face of all the witnesses that she had only been seeing if she could fool them! "Whose wedding, Nancy?" She looked blankly from one smiling face to the other.
"Oh, wake up, Hitty!" Doctor Condit snapped his fingers at her good-naturedly. "Mother, ye never let Hitty fall on her head when a babe to make her a little daft, now, did ye?" he asked, in feigned anxiety, turning to Mistress Condit. At that lady's laughing denial, he looked again at Mehitable.
"But—but——" The girl stood looking at them wildly.
"Ye feel a little better, now, don't ye, Hitty?" Her brother hurried to her side in pretended concern and held her pulse. "Quite normal," he said then, to the others' chorus of mirth. "Let's see your tongue, Hitty!"
But sticking it out at him saucily, Mehitable fled to her mother's chair and faced that lady excitedly. "Mother, is it true Nancy and John are to be married here this morrow?" she demanded. "I can get no sense from either one o' them."
Charity, coming up behind Mehitable, stared ​wide-eyed as she waited for their mother's answer. When Mistress Condit nodded and smiled, both girls uttered a shriek of joy, and, catching each other by the hands, spun around and around the big kitchen.
"But, Nancy, won't your father and mother feel badly not to be at your wedding?" Mehitable presently stopped her mad whirling to ask this, with her usual lack of tact.
Mistress Nancy turned from the window where she was conversing with Squire Condit, who had entered during the confusion. Her eyes darkened and her lips quivered all at once.
"Aye," she nodded soberly. "But—but John dared not come to New York Town, for fear o' capture, and—and my mother could not come on horseback, not being well, so Father stayed home wi' her—and vehicles are not to be obtained for New Jersey trips so—so——" The sweet voice thickened, choked, died away into silence.
"So we are to be married the morrow!" finished John tenderly, coming up to clasp his sweetheart in his arms. "And some people," he remarked pointedly, "do not exhibit the consideration they might display an they choose."
"Nay!" Mistress Nancy, drying the tears in her eyes, perceived the hurt ones in Mehitable's. "Nay!" The little bride-to-be ran across to the other girl. "Do not mind him, forsooth! He only ​assumes airs thus to impress us all! But I do not fear him, though he does scold! See!' She flew back, and while Charity and her mother watched laughingly, she stood a-tiptoe and pulled her lover's nose until he held up his hands in hasty surrender. Then she swaggered gaily back to Mehitable. "I am not afraid o' the man!" she finished. "Now, come, kiss and make up, both o' ye! I was only silly and tired, else I should never ha' felt hurt. And he shall scold ye no more, Hitty!" And pulling brother and sister toward each other, she made them kiss each other, and the little scene ended in laughter.
The next day dawned as lovely as any bride could wish.
"Don't be late for church!" said everyone, rushing around in confusion. And of the ones who said it the most often and the most seriously, Mehitable was that person.
"Mother, where be my silken shirt?" That was Squire Condit's voice shouting down the stairs.
"Oh, Mother—Ram's horn! Someone hath hidden the boot-jack!" That was John's voice, impatient, nervous.
"Moth-er! Don't pick the white roses—I wish to gather them last—they wilt so quickly!" Charity was to see to the arrangement of the nosegays.
"Mother, I vow someone has sat upon this bonnet! It never had this shape before!" Mehitable ​entered the Condit kitchen abruptly. "How does my gown look?"
Mistress Condit turned a perspiring face toward her daughter. She had been up long before dawn, preparing the wedding feast and performing the thousand and one endless tasks that only the mother of the family thinks she must do at such times.
"Your bonnet looks very well—of course no one sat on it!—and so does your gown, Hitty!" she gasped. "Go tell Cherry to keep still—she drives me fair distracted! I won't pick her roses—I ha' no time, tell her! Call up to your father and tell him his silken shirt do be in the highboy, second drawer! And take the boot-jack to John before he shouts us all out o' the house! Mercy, Nancy be the only quiet one beneath this roof! No!" Mistress Condit shook her head as she turned back to lift a furiously boiling pot from the crane and swung another into its place in the fire cavern. "Ye can do naught here, Hitty! I want to get everything ready before we start for church, then we can cool off this room and reheat the food outdoors. Art going out?" She looked up sharply as, her errands done, Mehitable stepped toward the door. "Then tell Amos to watch that roasting-pig he be barbecuing! I'll ne'er forgive him an he lets it burn!"
"Amos does not speak to me," answered Mehitable, a shadow falling over her bright face. "He ​hath ne'er forgiven me the death o' poor Dulcie!"
"Eh!" Mistress Condit glanced at her absently. "Oh, nonsense, he will get o'er that!" she said comfortably. "Don't go far—do not be late for church, Hitty!"
"As though I would be—my first wedding!" answered Mehitable scornfully. "Besides, please notice that I be the only one ready and dressed, wi' the rest all still adorning themselves!"
She walked out slowly through the shady orchard, where Amos sat beside the trench he had dug. Within the trench, smoking and succulent, the wedding meats were being prepared. But Amos neither answered nor looked up when she stopped to give him her mother's message, and, sighing, Mehitable walked on to the great barn.
Entering the saddle room, from which a ladder led up into the hayloft above, she glanced down dubiously at her best gown. She wanted most intensely to go up into the sweet-smelling hay and there be alone to think over the great event, and wanting to do a thing with Mehitable was almost invariably to do it. Amos, therefore, coming into the barn a second or so later, was not surprised to see a flutter of the best gown disappearing over the top of the ladder into the haymow.
Settling herself upon the fragrant hay, Mehitable sank into luxurious reverie . . . dark eyes . . . cocked hat . . . tall, slender figure ​. . . a buff and blue uniform . . . Aaron Harrison's face when she had told him the pitiful "No." . . . All these became inexplicably mixed up. . . . Then there was Jemima's baby . . . and Nancy's wedding-morn smile. . . . A little time passed . . . alittle more time passed . . . and presently Mehitable became aware of eyes, watching eyes . . . and opened her own.
"Gray Hawk!" she exclaimed, springing to her eet:
The Indian bent his head in stately salutation and moved forward from where he had been standing by the top of the ladder, watching her with folded arms.
"Come danger!" he announced in his guttural voice.
"Danger?" For almost the first time since she had known his relationship to her brother, Mehitable looked skeptical. She glanced around the big, dim, sweet-smelling place. "Danger?" she repeated. "Here, Gray Hawk? Nay, what could happen i' the security o' my father's barn?"
"One night I ride!" said the Indian, changing the subject abruptly. "Horse fall—break leg!"
"Ye mean," Mehitable stared at him with knitted brows, "ye mean—that night before the battle o' Springfield—oh, Gray Hawk, was it ye following me?"
​"Ugh-huh!" grunted the Indian, nodding. He gave a fatalistic shrug. "No good—horse break leg," he added.
"Oh, me!" Mehitable sighed. "An ye had caught up wi' me—though I should ha' been frightened daft—poor Dulcie might ha' been alive now!"
The Indian moved impatiently. "Danger!" he said again sharply.
"But, Gray Hawk, an there be," Mehitable made a puzzled gesture, "can ye tell me where?"
"Here!" said a new voice. And both Indian and maid whirled around to find Simpson standing at one end of the hayloft, where he had evidently just emerged from a snug, hidden nest in the hay, standing with his arms nonchalantly crossed and a pistol in each hand. Over his shoulder peered Hawtree.
"Come," said Simpson, a malicious smile upon his face at their surprise, "line up where we can see ye—you and yonder redskin, mistress!"
But not for nothing had Mehitable tolnd Charity she loved living in this wartime period. Her whole soul thrilled to meet the present, full of danger as it was. She uttered a shriek of defiance and sprang toward the ladder hole; but Simpson, half laughing and not pulling his pistol-trigger, headed her off. Then she darted toward the low, wide door through which hay was tossed at harvest ​time; but there Hawtree headed her off—perhaps happily, for she might have broken her neck had she jumped to the ground below.
"Amos! Amos!" The girl's despairing cry rang out, was answered from outside the barn.
"Help! Run for help!" Panting, her hand upon her heart, Mehitable backed against the wall and watched the rogue, Hawtree, closing in upon her.
"They be all at church, mistress!" Apparently Amos did not recognize the extreme stress in the girl's voice. His leisurely footsteps could be heard approaching the foot of the ladder. "What would ye?"
"Back, Amos! Nay, come not up here!" Mehitable threw every ounce she possessed of authority into her voice before it ended in a gurgle as Hawtree's hand closed over her mouth; but, struggling with all her healthy young strength, she heard the farm servant's retreating footsteps and felt oddly disappointed. He had gone, leaving her to her fate! All the years of service in her father's employment, even the gift of his freedom, for Amos had been a bond servant, indentured for many more years than Squire Condit had allowed him to give gratis—all this counted not at all! Mehitable, writhing, twisting in Hawtree's rough grasp, wondered dully if Amos were still angry with her, if he were showing her revenge now!
​And now she cried out, for Hawtree had given her arm a cruel wrench. This was not to Simpson's liking.
"Nay, Hawtree, think ye be on a prison ship?" he said sternly. His eyes were fixed guardedly upon the Indian, who, arms folded haughtily, had stood immobile all this while; but he shook his head sharply. "Let the maid go free! She cannot escape now!"
Hawtree dropped Mehitable's arm and lounged sullenly away. "Get her down a-horseback, then!" he growled. "My turn shall come later!"
Simpson, his eyes still watching the Indian, bowed ironically. "Will ye descend, mistress? We must away!" he said with mock politeness.
"Nay!" Mehitable shook her head stubbornly and stiffened herself as she leaned against the wall. "I will not go one step until ye tell me what ye would do wi' us!"
"That be none o' your concern, mistress!" Simpson was commencing when Hawtree, with an oath, thrust himself back and once more seized Mehitable's arm.
"Ye will do what we bid!" he snapped brutally. "There be no ruse can help ye now, smart though ye think yourself, mistress!"
Then ensued a pretty struggle indeed between villain and maid! Mehitable's best gown was torn and ripped in a dozen places, yet did Hawtree pay ​for these rents with an equal number of scratches. Her farm-bred strength made her no mean match, for Hawtree was flabby from easy living, and the girl, for all her slenderness, had the wiry activity and the courage of a tigress.
So the strange combat, with the silent Indian and Simpson guarding him, for witnesses, might have been prolonged indefinitely had not the latter, his glance shifting for the fraction of an instant to the open haymow door, taken a quick step forward toward the two swaying figures.
"Away, fool, before it be too late!" he cried to Hawtree.
But a sardonic grunt from the Indian mingled with one from below, and up the ladder hole came the words, "I fear it be already too late, gentlemen! Ye are our prisoners!"
And now the Indian proved himself also no mean antagonist. In the instant of confusion following these words he saw his chance and took it. There was the flash of a brown arm and Simpson's pistols were no longer in his grasp! One pistol was in Gray Hawk's hand, instead, and the other was lying on the floor in a far corner. Another flash of the brown arm and Simpson's hands were pinned behind his back and he was held, squirming helplessly, before the Indian.
"White man!" Gray Hawk's voice was quiet; but Hawtree looked up to find himself facing the ​loaded pistol, to find his companion helpless, and with the coldest, cruelest eyes he had ever seen in all his own cruel career gazing at him significantly. Without a word, his hands dropped to his sides, and Mehitable, suddenly released, staggered and sat down unromantically upon a pile of hay.
Not a word more was spoken as the Indian, gesturing, marched his prisoners to the edge of the ladder hole and watched them reluctantly descend to the saddle room below. But he turned courteously at the sound of Mehitable's voice, as she pulled herself stiffly to her feet and approached him.
"Ah, Gray Hawk, it was most wonderful!" she said, with shining eyes, breathlessly. "The brutes might a-murdered us before they descended, had ye not done that which ye did!"
"Go down?" The Indian pointed questioningly toward the ladder hole, apparently ignoring her admiration; but Mehitable saw a flash of pleasure in the redman's eyes before his lids dropped mysteriously over them, and she knew he had accepted her praise.
"Aye! Let us go down!" And jauntily she climbed down the ladder, following close upon the redman's heels, for his training did not permit him to let the white squaw go first.
But, at the ladder foot, Mehitable faltered. She knew that help of some sort had arrived; but she ​had not counted upon such a number of blue-uniformed men as awaited her in the saddle room, though their grim gaze softened at sight of her slim, ragged figure.
"Captain Littell!" she stammered. "Ah—ever—ever the—the—'Jersey Blues' are at hand in time o' need!" She stopped and her eyes swept gratefully the band of men, patriot farmers and neighbors, who had formed themselves into a company under the leadership of Captain Littell, to protect their homes and to avenge Tory outrages during the war. "Ah, gentlemen!" Her hands fluttered out to them, while the tears sprang to her eyes. "How can I thank ye?" She turned tremulously to Gray Hawk. "And ye?"
As though the sight of those tears, then, had swept aside a barrier, a tall figure in buff and blue, who had been hovering unnoticed behind the "Jersey Blues," came forward.
"Art—art—hurt?" stammered Anthony Freeman.
After an uncontrollable start, Mehitable paused, bowed hesitatingly. Then she glanced down humorously at her torn gown. "Only this," she said unsteadily. "Oh—and this!" In spite of herself, she uttered a stifled groan when she tried to lift her wrenched arm and her glance went to Hawtree, standing in the midst of a guard of four men. ​Captain Freeman's gaze followed hers and, reading its meaning, he flushed angrily and turned impulsively to Captain Littell.
"Sir, have I your permission to deal wi' one o' the prisoners as I see fit?" he asked.
"Aye, sir!" responded Captain Littell.
"S-s-sir!" sputtered Simpson wildly.
No one paid the slightest attention. Every pair of eyes was fixed upon Hawtree's face who, aware of what was coming, looked at the floor in pretended unconcern.
"Hawtree"—Anthony Freeman spoke so sharply that involuntarily the rogue looked at him—"I charge ye briefly wi' being a spy, a traitor to New Jersey, a man who mistreats women and children, and a being no longer fit to live. I, therefore, sentence ye to immediate death by hanging!"
There was a breathless silence. Then, slowly, Hawtree's face turned to a dirty yellow, and there was an audible gasp from Simpson. Before any of the Tories could speak, however, Mehitable swept forward with her head up.
"Captain Littell," she said in a ringing voice, "I demand trial at Morris Town for this man Hawtree and a sentence not given in anger!"
Captain Littell, painfully embarrassed, glanced at the younger officer. Before he could speak, however, the other man bowed.
"May it please ye, sir, to do as the lady re​quests," said Anthony Freeman coldly. He turned away as the "Jersey Blues" surrounded the down-cast Tories and marched them out of the barn, followed by Gray Hawk.
But, once outside, there was a great hue and cry. Mehitable flew to the open door, to stare and point.
"'Tis Simpson!" she gasped. "He is escaping! How did he e'er get away? Run, Simpson," she screamed. "Run!"
Captain Freeman came hastily to the door and looked over her shoulder. "Why do ye bid the rogue run?" he demanded harshly.
"For Tabbie's sake!" Mehitable wrung her hands. "There, he has leaped upon one o' the horses—see how he rides! Oh, don't shoot!" Her hands flung themselves outward in a gesture of pleading, though no one but Anthony could hear her. "He be so young!" she half sobbed. "Don't shoot! Ah!"
As flame spat out from several muskets at once, Mehitable screamed again; then, as Simpson, galloping madly, reeled in his saddle, swayed headlong to the ground, so did Mehitable sink weeping to the floor of the saddle room, and for a little while only the sound of her sobs broke the stillness. Then Amos's voice spoke briskly.
"What be weeping for, mistress? The lad be not dead!" As Mehitable glanced up through her tears, the old farm servant nodded at her reassur​ingly. "Nay, he was more scared than wounded! And Captain Littell, who did recognize the lad, did say his aunt—a lady o' wealth i' New York—hath been searching frantically for him, and that she hath promised, an he be found, to ship him and his sister, too, over to England!"
Good old Amos, who had sped help to her for all her having caused Dulcie's death! But here Amos stopped prattling abruptly. It was almost as though he were being pushed away, pushed right out of the barn by someone's dark eyes! Silence dribbled by for a few moments. Then Mehitable glanced up sideways through her curls.
"Ye—ye—did not leave any word at all—when ye left Newark!" she stammered reproachfully.
Now this was not at all what she had planned to say upon meeting Anthony Freeman again! But the blaze of hope and happiness that leaped into his dark eyes showed that it was exactly the right thing to have said! Before he could speak, however, two shadows slanted across the threshold, and Charity and a tall, awkward figure in Continental uniform came flying into the barn.
"Hitty!" gasped Charity. "Wherever ha' ye been! Why, the wedding is o'er! We thought ye had gone on to the church when ye did not come at Mother's call! How could you"—she looked at her sister wide-eyed—"how could you miss John's wedding!"
​"'Twas a rare fine sight!" chimed in Young Cy eagerly. He looked at Mehitable with a more observant gaze than the excited Charity could bestow. "Whate'er has happened?" he asked, amazed. "What happened your gown?"
But Mehitable did not answer until, "Miss John's wedding!" she said, in a low voice. She looked away from them. "All—all—my life have I wanted to see a—a—wedding!"
Charity, about to hurry to her side, happened to glance at Captain Freeman and suddenly turned to Young Cy.
"C-come, Young Cy!" she stammered. "We—we—had better return! Mother might need me!" And slipping her hand through the young soldier's arm, she led him away, back through the sunflecked orchard toward the old farmhouse.
Again there was silence; then Mehitable, whose eyes had dropped to the floor, uttered a joyful cry. She made a pounce forward.
"Cousin Eliza's buckle!" she gasped, holding up something that glittered. "Why, it must have dropped from Simpson's pocket! Oh, I do be so glad!"
But here she felt her hands being taken gently—oh, very gently, because of the wrenched arm—into someone's warm grasp.
"Little love," said Anthony Freeman, "look at me!"
​Mehitable tried to raise her eyes—strange, what weight upon her lids!
"Nay, Captain Freeman," she began precipitately.
"Ye called me Anthony that night i' Newark!" interrupted the young man impetuously. "Oh, my dear—won't ye tell me wherein I ha' offended?"
Mehitable spoke in a very small voice. "Ye—ye did not say farewell i' Newark! Ye left without a word!"
"Why, my dear," Anthony stared at her in real surprise, "I left a note! Did ye not receive it at Mistress Hedden's? I told ye then I had to return to Morris Town at once!"
"Did—did you, indeed?" faltered Mehitable. She made a forgiving gesture. "Ah, well, it must have been o'erlooked in that despairing household, for they heard that Master Hedden did freeze his feet that dreadful night the British marched him clear to New York without shoes and he was cast into the Sugar House prison without proper medical attention! He can only come home to die, now, an he does get freed!"
Anthony made a gesture of sympathy to match Mehitable's; but his own affairs were too hang-fire for him to pause long over others' troubles.
"And—what else am I to be forgiven for?" he asked eagerly.
"Those ladies," murmured Mehitable.
​"What ladies?" asked Anthony, puzzled.
"All"—Mehitable's voice dropped to a whisper—"all the ladies ye ha' kissed!"
"But," said Anthony Freeman reproachfully, "that was before I met you, sweetheart!"
And now what could Mehitable do but surrender her hands to his. Yet, even as he drew her into his arms, poor Anthony made a mistake!
"Little Mistress Madcap!" he murmured.
At that, Mehitable backed away, snatched her hands out of his grasp.
"Nay, sir!" she stormed, as he gaped at her. "I am no child! Name me no ridiculous names! "And she turned and fled out of the door.
With a gesture of laughing despair, Anthony strode after the slender, flying figure. Perhaps because he could take two steps to her one, perhaps for no reason at all, he caught up with her in the loveliest spot in the orchard, a place of green leaves and soft grass and bird songs. Anthony halted her by stepping smartly into her path.
"An ye do not want to be called Mistress Madcap?" he asked her anxiously, "what do ye want to be called? Hitty?"
Mehitable glanced down at the buckle in her hand, meditatively flipped it, grinned to herself as she caught it dexterously, looked up at him provokingly as eighteen years of satin-cheeked, curly-haired maidenhood can.
​"N-nay, I never liked the name o' Hitty nor yet that o' Mehitable," she said softly.
"How," he stepped a little closer, "how like ye the name o' Mistress—Anthony Freeman?"
"I—I—like it!" admitted honest Mehitable.
A little later, Mistress Condit looked thoughtfully along the wedding table and sighed, though merriment reigned its length, from the bride's and bridegroom's ecstatic faces to Gray Hawk's kind eyes. How like Mehitable, thought her mother, to be up long before dawn to make ready for the wedding, to miss it, then to linger, carefree, in the orchard with John's friend, as Charity, after peeping, had informed her!
"What can be delaying the madcap!" wondered Mistress Condit. But the next instant she smiled, for the two missing young people strayed in the kitchen door.
It was not until they were standing before her that she saw they came hand in hand!
The end