The golden hair was chestnut now,
and pushed behind her ears in heavy rippling masses of light and shadow.
Her eyes had taken a deeper tone--they were like wells whose depth you
could not guess at. Her features were delicately irregular, the forehead
low, broad and white; her chin was dimpled as an infant's, and her mouth
still ripe and red, as a damask rosebud. She wore a pink muslin wrapper,
tied with white ribbons, and in her hair drooped a cluster of
apple-blossoms.
"Margie dear," said Mr. Trevlyn, pausing in his work of buttering a
muffin, "I want you to look your prettiest to-night. I am going to bring
home a friend of mine--one who was also your father's friend--Mr.
Linmere. He arrived from Europe to-day."
Margie's cheek lost a trifle of its peachy bloom. She toyed with her
spoon, but did not reply to his remark.
"Did you understand me, child? Mr. Linmere has returned."
"Yes sir."
"And is coming here to-night. Remember to take extra pains with yourself,
Margie, for he has seen all the European beauties, and I do not want my
little American flower to be cast in the shade. Will you remember it?"
"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Trevlyn."
"Margie!"
"Yes!"
"You are aware that Mr. Linmere is your affianced husband, are you not?"
"I have been told so.
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