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Ruth’s hand again grasped his brother’s. Rand colored and hung his head.

“There’s more yet, gentlemen. I tell you that that girl, Mornie Nixon, has, to my knowledge, been treated like a lady, has been cared for as she never was cared for in her father’s house, and, while that father has been proclaiming her shame in every bar-room at the Ferry, has had the sympathy and care, night and day, of two of the most accomplished ladies of the Ferry,–Mrs. Sol Saunders, gentlemen, and Miss Euphemia.”

There was a shout of approbation from the crowd. Nixon would have slipped away, but the doctor stopped him.

“Not yet! I’ve one thing more to say. I’ve to tell you, gentlemen, on my professional word of honor, that, besides being an old hypocrite, this same old Mat Nixon is the ungrateful, unnatural GRANDFATHER of the first boy born in the district.”

A wild huzza greeted the doctor’s climax. By a common consent the crowd turned toward the Twins, who, grasping each other’s hands, stood apart. The doctor nodded his head. The next moment the Twins were surrounded, and lifted in the arms of the laughing throng, and borne in triumph to the bar-room of the Mansion House.

“Gentlemen,” said the bar-keeper, “call for what you like: the Mansion House treats to-day in honor of its being the first time that Rand Pinkney has been admitted to the bar.”

*****

It was agreed, that, as her condition was still precarious, the news should be broken to her gradually and indirectly. The indefatigable Sol had a professional idea, which was not displeasing to the Twins. It being a lovely summer afternoon, the couch of Mornie was lifted out on the ledge, and she lay there basking in the sunlight, drinking in the pure air, and looking bravely ahead in the daylight as she had in the darkness, for her couch commanded a view of the mountain flank. And, lying there, she dreamed a pleasant dream, and in her dream saw Rand returning up the mountain-trail. She was half conscious that he had good news for her; and, when he at last reached her bedside, he began gently and kindly to tell his news. But she heard him not, or rather in her dream was most occupied with his ways and manners, which seemed unlike him, yet inexpressibly sweet and tender. The tears were fast coming in her eyes, when he suddenly dropped on his knees beside her, threw away Rand’s disguising hat and coat, and clasped her in his arms. And by that she KNEW it was Ruth.

But what they said; what hurried words of mutual explanation and forgiveness passed between them; what bitter yet tender recollections of hidden fears and doubts, now forever chased away in the rain of tears and joyous sunshine of that mountain-top, were then whispered; whatever of this little chronicle that to the reader seems strange and inconsistent (as all human record must ever be strange and imperfect, except to the actors) was then made clear,–was never divulged by them, and must remain with them forever. The rest of the party had withdrawn, and they were alone. But when Mornie turned, and placed the baby in its father’s arms, they were so isolated in their happiness, that the lower world beneath them might have swung and drifted away, and left that mountain-top the beginning and creation of a better planet.

*****

“You know all about it now,” said Sol the next day, explaining the previous episodes of this history to Ruth: “you’ve got the whole plot before you. It dragged a little in the second act, for the actors weren’t up in their parts. But for an amateur performance, on the whole, it wasn’t bad.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Rand impulsively, “how we’d have got on without Euphemia. It’s too bad she couldn’t be here to-day.”

“She wanted to come,” said Sol; “but the gentleman she’s engaged to came up from Marysville last night.”

“Gentleman–engaged!” repeated Rand, white and red by turns.

“Well, yes. I say, ‘gentleman,’ although he’s in the variety profession. She always said,” said Sol, quietly looking at Rand, “that she’d never marry OUT of it.”