But Honora carried happiness greater than any dreamed,--a secret of the ages,--and the prize was her man's fame.
She reached her own door, and with sure, swift hands, fitted the key in the lock. The house wore a welcoming aspect. The drawing-room was filled with blossoming plants, and the diaphanous curtains which Blue-eyed Mary had hung at the windows blew softly in the breeze. The piano, with its suggestive litter of music, stood open, and across the bench trailed one of Mary's flowered chiffon scarfs.
"David!" called Honora. "David!"
Two blithe baby voices answered her from the rear porch. The little ones were there with Mrs. Hays, and they excitedly welcomed this variation in their day's programme.
"In a minute, babies," called Honora. "Mamma will come in a minute."
Yes, she and David would go together to the babies, and they would "tell them," the way people "told the bees."
"David!" she kept calling. "David!"
She looked in the doors of the rooms she passed, and presently reached her own. As she entered, a large envelope addressed in David's writing, conspicuously placed before the face of her desk-clock, caught her eye. She imagined that it contained some bills or memoranda, and did not stop for it, but ran on.
"Oh, he's gone to town," she cried with exasperation, "and I haven't an idea where to reach him!"
Closing her ears to the calls of the little girls, she returned to her own room and shut herself in. She was completely exasperated with the need for patience. Never had she so wanted David, and he was not there--he was not there to hear that the moment of triumph had come for both of them and that they were justified before their world.