“Mr. Bruce,” the girl interrupted him, “Betsy does know nothing of it; but if she did, Betsy is something more than clever, she is wise. She probably doesn’t read Emerson, but if she did, it would be her own thought that she would put into his words: ‘Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions, because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the human heart.’” The speaker took a firm hold on the sweet voice that threatened to break. “That morning was a time of wine and dreams. I’ve always been a child. I’ve always dreamed dreams; but to-night I am awake, I am starting out in real life, with my eyes open.” Those eyes had been downcast, but now she lifted them again to her companion’s flushed face. “I shall be very glad if you help me—and not hinder.”
“The tough fibre of the human heart,” repeated Irving.
“Yes,” returned the girl. “It is a slow growth,—but it holds.”
A black-coated biped hovering before the Christmas trees, now retreating and now advancing undecidedly, heard his name with relief.
“Is that you, Mr. Ames?” asked Rosalie, rising with decision. The young man addressed doubled around the end of the grove with eager agility.
“I didn’t intend to hide,” laughed the girl.
Irving rose also, and when the two had gone, sank back on the seat, playing absently with the fan he still held.
His thoughts were busy, and his teeth tightly closed.
“What do I want, anyway?” he reflected. “Which is Betsy: a meddlesome busybody, or a guardian angel? I’ll take no chances on the angel proposition. She’s a busybody. I’ll see her to-morrow.”
Irving shook his head threateningly, and a sudden nervous twist of his strong fingers broke a couple of sticks of the pretty fan. He frowned in dismay, and fitted them together in the futile manner inseparable from the occasion.