“Perhaps—” He had to bend his head to catch the low-spoken words—“Perhaps—Father’s Christmas present will—will reconcile you.”
What his answer was is not of record. There was but a moment to give to it; for a whistle from Sandy presently warned Gard that his horse was ready, and the two whispered their good-night, in the friendly darkness.
CHAPTER XV
Gard and Helen were married late in January. Gard’s patience, and hard-won philosophy, seemed wholly to desert him at the thought of longer delay.
“One would think,” Helen laughed, as he pleaded with her to set an earlier day, “that you were afraid I might vanish.”
“I am,” answered Gard. “I always have been, from the minute I saw you come around the corner of the house that morning, with your tray and grape-fruit, I’ve been expecting I’d wake up some day and find that this part of the dream isn’t true.”
Helen’s cheek lingered against the hand which he put out as if to reassure himself of her presence.
“It is true,” she said, softly, “truer than the other parts, the hard, cruel parts. They are the things that have vanished, dear.”
“I guess you’re right,” was Gard’s reply. “They were the dream, and this is the waking-up; the blessed waking-up.”
“Do you know,” he suddenly said, “it was the longest kind of a time—up in the mountain—before I got over being afraid, just before I’d open my eyes in the morning?”