“My darling—my darling!” whispered her aunt. “There—there! Rob, dearest, help me!”
Rolph rose from his chair, half-pleased, half-amused by his mother’s action, as she shifted the burden to his great muscular arms.
“Help her to the couch, my love. Why, she is all of a tremble. I’ll go and fetch my salts. Rob, dearest, can’t you bring back the colour to her cheeks?”
She moved slowly toward the door in quite a stage exit, smiling with satisfaction as she saw her son make no effort to place the trembling woman upon the couch, but holding her to his breast, while, slowly and timidly, her hands rose to his neck, gained faith and courage, and by the time the door closed upon the pair, Madge was clinging tightly, and for the first time for two years felt that the arms which encircled her held her firmly.
“Rob!” she cried wildly, as she raised her head to gaze wildly in his eyes.
“All right, pussy,” he said. “The mater says we are to forget all the past, and forgive, and all that sort of thing, and the event is to be a fixture, short notice and no flam.”
“You mean it, Rob—darling?”
“Of course,” he cried; and his lips closed upon hers.
“There,” he said, after a time; “now let’s go and have a quiet walk and talk.”
“In the garden? Yes!”