“Dear Alan!” repeated Ethel. “If you are so kind, so dear as to be glad, Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.”
Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of rejoicing which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstasy of the fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had intended; he had figured to himself unmixed joy, and she wanted to see it, and something of the wayward impatience of weakness throbbed at her heart, as Ethel paced the room, and disappeared in her own curtained recess.
Presently she came back saying, “You are sure you are glad?”
“It would be strange if I were not,” said Margaret. “See, Ethel, here are blessings springing up from what I used to think had served for nothing but to bring him pain and grief. I am so thankful that he could express his desire, and so grateful to dear Harry for bringing it to light. How much better it is than I ever thought it could be! He has been spared disappointment, and surely the good that he will have done will follow him.”
“And you?” said Ethel sadly.
“I shall lie here and wait,” said Margaret. “I shall see the plans, and hear all about it, and oh!”—her eyes lighted up—“perhaps some day, I may hear the bell.”
Richard’s tap interrupted them. “Had he heard?”
“I have.” The deepened colour in his cheek betrayed how much he felt, as he cast an anxious glance towards Margaret—an inquiring one on Ethel.
“She is so pleased,” was all Ethel could say.
“I thought she would be,” said Richard, approaching. “Captain Gordon seemed quite vexed that no special token of remembrance was left to her.”