Was this Elsie, his old-time girl, of whom he had thought so often and so tenderly—Elsie, of whom he had dreamed, and whom he longed to see—Elsie, blue-eyed, golden-haired, trusting and true!
How his heart leaped and fluttered! How the love-light leaped into his eyes! How his stern face softened!
It was Elsie—dear little Elsie—the old sea captain’s daughter, and, if possible, she was sweeter, prettier, more attractive than when last he had seen her.
She was pale when he first looked at her, but as she saw the joyous light of recognition in his eyes, the warm color stole into her cheeks, and she gasped with a delight that was almost childish.
“It is!” she panted; “it is Frank—my Frank!”
He drew her close to him, forgetting the scoundrel he had knocked down. Both his arms were about her, and for the moment the joy of his heart was too deep for words.
She lay in his strong arms, laughing, almost crying, half hysterical, wholly happy. From the terror and despair of a few moments before to relief and joy of the present was so great a revulsion of emotions that she felt herself incapable of any movement or act.
It was the same noble fellow she knew so well, only it seemed that he was handsomer and nobler in appearance than ever before. He was older, and there was more than a hint of dawning manhood in his face.
For the time, wrapped about with the unbounded delight of their unexpected meeting, they were utterly oblivious to their surroundings. They did not see Rolf Harlow struggle to a sitting posture, rubbing the spot where Frank’s fist had been planted. They did not see him glaring at Merriwell with deadly hate, while he felt to make sure that his revolver was where his hand could find it quickly.
Harlow arose quietly to his feet, assuming a crouching posture, ready to leap upon Frank, whose back was toward him.