see him for a little while tomorrow afternoon. Father has to go to Charlottetown on business. At least we will have one good farewell talk. But oh—afterwards—why, Rilla, I know father won’t even let me go to the station Friday morning to see Joe off.”
“Why in the world don’t you and Joe get married tomorrow afternoon at home?” demanded Rilla.
Miranda swallowed a sob in such amazement that she almost choked.
“Why—why—that is impossible, Rilla.”
“Why?” briefly demanded the organizer of the Junior Red Cross and the transporter of babies in soup tureens.
“Why—why—we never thought of such a thing—Joe hasn’t a license—I have no dress—I couldn’t be married in black—I—I—we—you—you—”
Miranda lost herself altogether and Sir Wilfrid, seeing that she was in dire distress, threw back his head and emitted a melancholy yelp.
Rilla Blythe thought hard and rapidly for a few minutes. Then she said,
“Miranda, if you will put yourself into my hands I'll have you married to Joe before four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, you couldn’t.”
“I can and I will. But you’ll have to do exactly as I tell you.”
“Oh—I—don’t think—oh, father will kill me—”
“Nonsense. He'll be very angry I suppose. But are you more afraid of your father’s anger than you are of Joe’s never coming back to you?”
“No,” said Miranda, with sudden firmness, “I’m not.”
