"And you forgive me," said Marion, sobbing still.
Roswell kissed her. "It is I who must be forgiven," he said. "I ought to have seen before that a woman like you could not love a crusty old banker, who came home every night covered with the dust of the office. I am a rough fellow who needs a lot of polishing up, but I want you to try and see what you can make of me, and I want your love."
"My darling," said Marion. "I love you as I never knew I could love. I thought the wild fancy of the moment was love, but I have learned my mistake. If you will take me into your heart again I will try so hard to make you a good wife."
A faint sunbeam came through the eastern window and glanced feebly along the floor; then it grew stronger and stronger, until the gloomy library was brightened by a flood of rich, warm sunlight. The storm had ceased. The clouds had rolled away.
"It takes some such trial as ours," Roswell said, "to call forth love. We know now how necessary we are to each other, don't we, dear?"
The look of sweet tenderness in Marion's eyes gave him his answer.
"Let us think no more of those days, my darling," said Roswell, throwing his arms about his wife and drawing her closer to his side. "We will forget the past and live in the future. What answer shall I send about the cottage?" As he said this he reached toward the table to get the letter. Marion's eyes followed his hand, and they fell upon a name signed to a note lying there.
"That man!" she cried, turning her head away and hiding her face on Roswell's shoulder.
"That man will worry you no more," he said, taking up the note. "Read what he says."
Marion took the paper and read: