She opened the door in response to his firm knock after dinner, hesitating perceptibly when she saw him. But Philip would not be denied, and entered with a determined resolution.
The girl's heart rose high—fluttered, and almost ceased to beat. He was going to speak; she must not allow it.
"Where did you go to-night?" he asked, as he put his hat and stick on the table. "I saw you on Warren street and tried to overtake you, but you disappeared. I prowled around hoping to find you again; and I had my new shoes on, too, and they hurt me."
The whimsical gaiety of the complaint took away Winifred's reserve, and without attempting to explain her disappearance, she smiled a welcome, though she soon fell silent under the burden of her heart.
Philip had called with a set purpose, yet he found no words as he sat before the smouldering fire. He had time, waiting for the moment of speech, to note the pathetic droop of her shoulders and the weariness of her beautiful eyes. Evidently the courage and strength of the day had been exhausted.
She played idly with a book, but laid it aside while she roused the half-burned wood into a shower of sparks.
Philip reached and took up the book abstractedly, and carelessly turned the leaves, wondering how he should say what was in his heart. A loose paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It was the newspaper cutting that Winifred had saved, but had forgotten to copy, in the stress of her anxieties.
Danvers was about to replace it when something familiar made him scan it eagerly. Radiant with joy, he glanced at his companion, but Winifred stood at the mantel with averted face. He took out his note-book, found a little, old, yellow scrap, and held both slips in his hand as he rose. He drew the girl to him, startled, resisting.
"Haven't we found each other?" he asked, simply, showing her the twin copies of the legend, old, yet ever new. "This little clipping has been close to my heart for years—waiting for you, dear. Won't you take its place?"
Winifred was silent. She had guarded against all ordinary appeals, but this—how could she answer him? To refuse this tender sympathy, this yearning love, when she most needed it—the thought was bitterness!