This rather took me back, and I stammered a feeble protest, but he did
not heed me. Turning to Mary, he went on: "And you, Mary Warden, I
s'pose at such times you are 'Miss.' What wanity! What wanity!
Politeness, they calls it. Politeness? Well, in the great eternity,
up above, where they speaks from the heart, you'll be just Mark and
just Mary. But down yander--yander, mind ye--the folks will probably
set more store by titles." The old preacher was pointing solemnly in
the direction of the cellar.

There was a long pause, an interval of heavy silence. Then from Mary
in the darkness came, "Well, Uncle, let us hope that when we reach that
great eternity, Mark and I will be good enough friends to lay aside
such vanities."

"Right!" cried Luther, smiling again, and speaking real heartily.

"Right," said I; "and we'll begin eternity to-day, won't we, Mary?"

"We will," said she.

And in my heart I blessed Luther Warden. Guilelessly, the old man, in
a few words, had swept away the barrier Mary and I had raised between
us. He had added years to our friendship. So had he stopped there it
would have been wonderfully well; but he had to go floundering
innocently on. He was laughing softly.

"Do you know, Mark," he said, rubbing his spectacles nervously, "she
made me jealous of you when she talked that way. I thought she'd set
her cap for you, I did. Whenever a man and woman gits polite, whenever