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 straight over the geranium bed. Janet stood up. So did Anne. Anne was a tall girl and wore a white dress; but John Douglas did not see her.

“Janet,” he said, “will you marry me?”

The words burst out as if they had been wanting to be said for twenty years and must be uttered now, before anything else.

Janet’s face was so red from crying that it couldn’t turn any redder, so it turned a most unbecoming purple.

“Why didn’t you ask me before?” she said slowly.

“I couldn’t. She made me promise not to—mother made me promise not to. Nineteen years ago she took a terrible spell. We thought she couldn’t live through it. She implored me to promise not to ask you to marry me while she was alive. I didn’t want to promise such a thing, even though we all thought she couldn’t live very long—the doctor only gave her six months. But she begged it on her knees, sick and suffering. I had to promise.”

“What had your mother against me?” cried Janet.

“Nothing—nothing. She just didn’t want another woman—any woman—there while she was living. She said if I didn’t promise she’d die right there and I’d have killed her. So I promised. And she’s held me to that promise ever since, though I’ve gone on my knees to her in my turn to beg her to let me off.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” asked Janet chokingly. “If I’d only known! Why didn’t you just tell me?”