Gwyn flushed. Even yet she did not suspect the truth, and she feared Harold had told of her humiliation in giving a ball at The Palms in honor of a supposed daughter of nobility whose father proved to be a pigraiser. Rather coldly she said, “I had heard such a rumor, but we all decided that it was untrue.”
“But it wasn’t. Were my sister in England she would be called ‘Lady Lenora.’ Our uncle died last winter and father is now in possession of the family estates and title.”
The girl flushed and tears rushed to her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?” she asked, and the lad replied: “I had two reasons. One was that I wished to be loved just for myself, and the other was that I do not care to marry a snob.”
Then he had bounded away to breakfast with Harold at the cabin and to don his overalls, for, not one morning had the boys neglected to appear at the farm, on time, to help Grandpa Si.
* * * * * * * *
It was the hour for Gwyn to read to her mother, who was already waiting in the pond-lily garden. The woman, much stronger than she had been, was amazed to see the joy so plainly depicted on the beautiful face of her adopted daughter. She held out a hand that was as white as the lilies on the blue surface of the water.
“Gwynette, dear girl, what has so transformed you?” To the woman’s surprise, Gwyn dropped down on the low stool and, taking her hand, pressed it close to her cheek. “Mother dear, I am so happy, so wonderfully happy! But I don’t deserve it! I have always been so hateful. How could I have won so priceless a treasure as the love of Charles Gale?”
There were conflicting emotions in the heart of the listener. She had had dreams of Gwynette’s coming-out party which they had planned for the next winter. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had often thought over the eligibles for whom she would angle, after the fashion of mothers with beautiful daughters, and here the matter had all been settled without her knowledge and Gwyn was to marry a rancher’s son. “Dear,” she said tenderly, smoothing the girl’s sun-glinted hair, “are you sure that you love him? With your beauty you could have won wealth and position.”
How glowing was the face that was lifted. “Mother, I chose love, and have won a far higher social pinnacle than you ever dreamed for me.”
When the story had been told Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, notwithstanding her changed ideals, was nevertheless pleased. She leaned forward and kissed her daughter tenderly. “Dear girl,” she said, “I am especially glad that, first of all, you chose love. I did when I married your father, but the great mistake I made was continuing to be a snob.”