My own imagination had been touched by all these influences, and by another—the dear and beautiful girl of whom I have said not half enough. There was no flower in all the gardens of Griggsby so graceful in form or so beautiful in color as Florence Dunbar. I felt a touch of the tender passion every time I looked into her eyes. No, she was not of the “sweet Alice” type; she was too full-blooded and strong-armed for that. She never entered a churchyard without being able to walk out of it, and if she had loved “Ben Bolt” she would have got him, to his great happiness and advantage. She was a modest, fun-loving, red-cheeked, sweet-souled girl, with golden hair and hazel eyes, and seventeen when first I saw her. Candor compels me to admit that she had a few freckles, but I remember that I liked the look of them; they had come of the wind and the sunlight.
The father of my chum Henry and his sister Florence had gone West from Griggsby with his bride in the early fifties, and had made a fortune. Florence and her brother had grown up on a ranch, and had been sent back to enjoy the educational disadvantages of Griggsby. They could ride like Indians, and their shooting had filled us with astonishment. With a revolver Florence could hit a half dollar thrown in the air before it touched the ground.
Her brother Henry was two years older, and as many inches taller than I, and always in my company, as I have said. He had begun to emulate the leading lights of the neighborhood. He and Ralph Buckstone, the handsome and gifted son of the great Colonel, were friends and boon companions.
Having been chastened by misfortune, like the great Dan'l Webster Smead, and being in dire need of money, Henry and I went straight to Florence's room the morning of our return from the horse races at Diddlebery, and confessed our ruin and the folly that had led to it. Henry urged me to do it, and said that he would do all the talking, for I told him that I would ask no favor of Florence—coward that I was.
She was kind, but she added to our conviction of guilt a sense of idiocy which was hard to bear. I secretly resolved to keep my brain unspotted by suspicion thereafter, whatever might happen to my soul. We gladly promised to be good. We would have given our notes for a million acts of virtue.
“We are for reform,” I assured her. “Henry and Mr. Smead and I have had a long talk about ourselves and the village. We are going to do what we can to improve the place. He spoke of buying The Little Corporal and drowning out the gamblers and drunkards with publicity.”
“That would be fun!” she exclaimed. “I will write to my father about that. Maybe it's lucky after all that you have had this trouble. I am grateful to you, Havelock, and I am going to help you, but you—” She hesitated, and I was quick to say: “I will not take your help unless you will let me return the money. I can work Saturdays in the mill and do it.”
“Oh, don't think of it again!” she said, with sympathy.
“I must think of it,” was my answer, “and with God's help I will not be so unfair to you again.”
She did not know how deeply I felt the words, and added: