Again he considered the miracle of her appearance in his life, and he rejoiced that, from the first, he had been able to be of service to her. Those loving, trusting words that she had just spoken—how they glowed in his heart! She had known that he would succeed! He could only think that the secret telegraphy of his love had sent her messages of confidence.
And yet he did not even know her name. The house was just such a one as he might have imagined to be her home—beautiful, with the air of a longer family tradition than is commonly found in the Middle West—unobtrusive but complete. And the furnishings of the room in which he was standing were in quiet but perfect taste.
On a table near him lay a book. Mechanically he picked it up.
It opened at the fly-leaf. Something was written there—her name, perhaps.
He closed the cover without reading the inscription, conscious only of a line of writing in a feminine hand that might be hers or another’s. No, he could wait. The name did not matter. She was his, and that was enough.
Near the book lay an empty envelope, addressed to—he averted his eyes.
He found himself wondering whether Poritol was still kneeling in the field, and whether Maku was still running, and whether the Japanese minister was still telling charming stories on the porch at Arradale.
And presently, when she came again, her face radiant, and said softly, “You have done a great thing, my dear”—when she said that, he could only look and look and thank Heaven for his blessedness.
“Where were the papers when you fooled me into leaving you?” she asked.