So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing now and
again, and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking
constantly at that drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the
bed, nursing her love and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly
endeavouring, to arrange what she would say to him.

"Mother," she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, "you won't
tell Hetta and Phineas, will you? Not to-day, I mean?" Mrs. Bell
agreed that it would be better not to tell them. Perhaps she
thought that she had already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas
in the matter.

Susan's finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now
lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of
the fashion of her clothes. But when she began to dress herself for
the evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had
better wear. "If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,"
said the mother. But not the less was she careful to smooth her
daughter's hair, and make the most that might be made of those faded
roses.

How Susan's heart beat,--how both their hearts beat as the hands of
the clock came round to seven! And then, sharp at seven, came the
knock; that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon
learned to know as belonging to Aaron Dunn. "Oh mother, I had
better go up stairs," she cried, starting from her chair.

"No dear; you would only be more nervous."