I
had been longing to ask about her, but dared not hazard the question.
My mother thought that I ought to call on the Hay family, we had always
been intimate, she said, and it would be no more than courteous for me
to surprise them with my presence.
I told her the truth. I should be extremely happy to do so, but I lacked
the courage.
"Mother," said I, frankly, "you know my cardinal failing. Be merciful
unto me. I should only make a fool of myself."
"I will make an errand for you," she replied, quickly; "Mrs. Hay is
troubled with a cough, and she wanted some of my tomato preserves for it.
You shall carry them over."
Ah! it takes a woman to manage things; depend on that.
I caught eagerly at the suggestion, for the imaged face of Florence Hay
had obtruded between my eyes and endless Greek roots a great many times
during the past four years. I was glad of an excuse to see once more the
face itself.
Armed with my letter of introduction, a glass jar of tomatoes, and
arrayed in my best suit, I rang the bell at the door of Mr. Hay. A
servant girl admitted me, and showed me directly into the room where
Florence was sitting.
How very beautiful she had grown during my absence! I had never seen so
fair a vision! She rose at my entrance, and, bowing with inimitable
grace, extended her hand.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191