“What do you mean, dear friend?”
“Dear friend indeed!” sobbed Clara. “Is he as blind as he would have me think? Haven’t I given hints enough, intimations enough, opportunities enough? Would the man force me to offer myself outright?”
There was another interval of silence, and this time it lasted full ten minutes. And then Kenrick, his breath coming quick, his breast heaving, unable longer to keep back his tears, drew forth his handkerchief, and covering his face, wept heartily.
He rose and put out his hand. Clara seized it. He folded her in his arms; and their first kiss,—a kiss of betrothal,—was exchanged.
THE END.
Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
Footnotes
[1]. Having slept under Toussaint’s roof, and seen him often, the writer can testify to the accuracy of this sketch of one of the most thorough gentlemen in bearing and in heart that he ever knew.