"John, I think I hear some one coming up the front steps!"
They listened. The door opened. They heard voices--Blackton's voice, Peggy's voice, and another voice--a man's voice.
Blackton's voice came up to them very distinctly.
"Mighty lucky, Peggy," he said. "Caught Mr. Wollaver just as he was passing the house. Where's----"
"Sh-h-hh!" came Peggy Blackton's sibilant whisper.
"I think," she said, "that it is the minister, John."
Her warm lips were near, and he kissed them.
Hand in hand they went down the stair; and when the minister saw Joanne, covered in the tangle and glory of her hair; and when he saw John Aldous, with half-naked arms and blackened face; and when, with these things, he saw the wonderful joy shining in their eyes, he stood like one struck dumb at sight of a miracle descending out of the skies. For never had Joanne looked more beautiful than in this hour, and never had man looked more like entering into paradise than John Aldous.
Short and to the point was the little mountain minister's service, and when he had done he shook hands with them, and again he stared at them as they went back up the stair, still hand in hand. At her door they stopped. There were no words to speak now, as her heart lay against his heart, and her lips against his lips. And then, after those moments, she drew a little back, and there came suddenly that sweet, quivering, joyous play of her lips as she said:
"And now, my husband, may I dress my hair?"
"My hair," he corrected, and let her go from his arms.
Her door closed behind her. A little dizzily he turned to his room. His hand was on the knob when he heard her speak his name. She had reopened her door, and stood with something in her hand, which she was holding toward him. He went back, and she gave him a photograph.
"John, you will destroy this," she whispered. "It is his photograph--Mortimer FitzHugh's. I brought it to show to people, that it might help me in my search. Please--destroy it!"
He returned to his room and placed the photograph on his table. It was wrapped in thin paper, and suddenly there came upon him a most compelling desire to see what Mortimer FitzHugh had looked like in life. Joanne would not care. Perhaps it would be best for him to know.