“Oh, what a pretty name! I love you.”
“And you will soon see me again.”
Willard stood with his hat in his hand in a waiting attitude, tall and manly, the fine face marked by a certain pride of birth, of culture, and the inherited grace of generations. The deep, outlooking eyes spoke of strength of character with a vein of tenderness, and the smiling mouth of affability. Yet it struck her that he did not seem to belong to the plain little parlor and it almost appeared as if he dwarfed the two women, a feeling she could not help resenting inwardly.
They made their adieus in a friendly manner. Yes, the bright day had settled to the threatening of storm. The air was heavy and murky and cut with the promise of coming sleet. Willard drew the girl’s hand through his arm and they caught step.
“I am glad you are going to be tall,” he said. “You have all the indications, the figure and the air. It runs in mother’s line as well as that of the Crawfords.”
“I am taller than—than your sister,” rather hesitatingly.
“Than your sister, as well. Oh, Marguerite, I hope you two will come to love each other dearly. Then there will be Vincent. We two boys have been such chums.”
“It is strange to have a new name,” she said slowly, yet it was more to her fancy.
“Do you like the old one better?” as if in a little doubt.
“I didn’t like it very much, and I remember when I rebelled against Lily. It seemed such a sing-song king of a name. It’s sweet and pretty, too, Lilian Boyd gave it more character.”