Well mounted, Allan had substituted a light-grey tweed suit, which well became his dark complexion, for his shooting-kilt and jacket, and as a sudden light or conviction came upon him, aided by a memory of the photo he had seen in Holcroft's possession, he sprang from his horse when the young lady drew near.
'I beg your pardon,' said he, as he threw the bridle over his arm and lifted his hat; 'I cannot be mistaken, changed though you are—you are my cousin, Olive Raymond?'
She blushed deeply, and said,
'And you—are Allan Graham!'
'Yes, Olive. Oh! how good, how kind of you to come and meet me,' he replied, his heart beating lightly as he looked into her beautiful face and deftly possessed himself of her hands.
'Far from it,' she replied, seeking to release herself, and now growing pale with positive annoyance at his supposition. 'I have some duties to do at the village. I hope you enjoyed your shooting excursion?' she observed, after a pause.
'I did—and yet——'
'So much so, indeed, that you were in no haste to come home,' said she, laughing to conceal her secret vexation at the rencontre.
Allan found his intended wife all that he could have wished, and more than he could have imagined. The little girl he had left, had now expanded into a tall, proud, and lovely one—lovelier than he had ever dreamed of her being; and under her pretty black velvet hat her grey-violet eyes regarded him with a curious mixture of shyness and confusion in their expression, and—though he did not then detect it—resentment.
When he had last seen his 'little wife,' as he was wont to call her then, she was a madcap girl, with all her golden hair flying far and wide from a pearly neck and brow, rippling and unconfined. Now her braided hair was of the richest brown, and she was the belle of a London season, and he could not help acknowledging in his heart the many charms she possessed, and suddenly becoming very appreciative thereof.