"The very glove that I lost four years ago! And you are—" she stopped suddenly.
He paled to the lips, but, lifting his head proudly, said: "Go on. Finish the sentence. I can bear it."
"No, I will not go on. Let the memory die, I knew you then, but you were so young, and had to bear so much among temptations! And the other was a villain. No, I am silent. You are safe."
He stooped, and, lifting the border of her shawl, kissed it reverently.
"If I live," he said solemnly, "you will be glad you have been so merciful. Some time I shall hear you say so."
She did not purchase any laces. She went out forgetful of her errand, and Arch was so awkward for the remainder of the day, and committed so many blunders, that his fellow-clerks laughed at him unrebuked, and Mr. Belgrade seriously wondered if Trevlyn had not been taking too much champagne.
Margie Harrison and her guardian sat at breakfast. Mr. Trevlyn showed his years very plainly. He was nearly seventy-five—he looked eighty.
Margie looked very lovely this morning and it was of this the old man was thinking as he glanced at her across the table. She had more than fulfilled the promise of her childhood. The golden hair was chestnut now, and pushed behind her ears in heavy rippling masses of light and shadow. Her eyes had taken a deeper tone—they were like wells whose depth you could not guess at. Her features were delicately irregular, the forehead low, broad and white; her chin was dimpled as an infant's, and her mouth still ripe and red, as a damask rosebud. She wore a pink muslin wrapper, tied with white ribbons, and in her hair drooped a cluster of apple-blossoms.
"Margie dear," said Mr. Trevlyn, pausing in his work of buttering a muffin, "I want you to look your prettiest to-night. I am going to bring home a friend of mine—one who was also your father's friend—Mr. Linmere. He arrived from Europe to-day."