'What shall I say for you to Mrs. Griswold?' she asks, with her hand in his.
'What shall you say? Have I not given you a thousand messages to Mrs. Griswold?'
'You have,' she answered, and yet she looked at him with such a look as might have shone in his mother's eyes, 'and I will not ask you for another. But I will say this to you as my parting words--and you must forgive me, Mr. Carey, and think me not too bold--see your year out in England, and then come home for your reward!'
She pressed his hand, close, close, and clung to him, as a mother might cling to a son, for a minute or two, and he spoke no word, but stooped over her, and kissed her on the forehead; and then the signal was given 'for shore,' and they parted.
[A NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.]
The story which I have here narrated is not original. I hasten to avow it, lest I should be detected, and obliged to confess the fact. It is one of those truths which look like fiction, only because they are so truly true. I am indebted for the 'heads' from which I have constructed it to Thornton S. Carey, the well-known merchant and millionnaire of New York, U.S.A., whose acquaintance, together with his charming wife, formerly Mrs. Helen Griswold, and his if possible more charming stepdaughter, I had the privilege of forming, last fall, at Saratoga Springs.