She saw nothing of him after she had watched the supple figure at the last moment springing lightly on the platform of the last car. But she knew he was near and was happy.
Early the next forenoon, in the counting-room of a mercantile firm on Front street, sat one of the principals, enjoying his Havana, when the door was darkened by the shadow of a tall figure standing in it.
"Jim—old fellow!" he cried, seizing the newcomer by both hands. "Welcome—thrice welcome! Have you come to stay, vagabond and rover? Say at once—I read something in your face that tells me you are unbending at last. Are you in love, my dear boy?—or what hath wrought this change?"
"How you do run on, Luke. You have not changed, at least. Yes, I am the prodigal son, returning to his father to be—set up in business. And—no—I'm not in love; I have simply learned to worship the dearest, noblest girl, and will make her mine—or die," he added, in a lower tone.
"Why not accept my offer, Jim? The desk at my elbow is always kept vacant for you. Your father, poor man, is not the only friend you have, remember." He laid his hand impressively on his friend's arm, and looked with frank affection into his face.
Their interview was a lengthy one: friend Luke seemed averse to parting with his old chum, and the son seemed in no great haste to greet his father. But as we need not intrude on their first meeting, we can rejoin father and son as they ascend the broad stairs in front of the family residence, whither the father has taken his son in the first flush of happiness.
"You will love little Willie, I know; he is a brave boy, with long flaxen ringlets just like my—like his mother." For the first time something like hesitation came into his speech, and even the son's heart beat faster for an instant as the door swung open in answer to the old man's ring. He preceded him through the corridor, threw open a door and called out, "Jim has come home, my dear; we are going into the library, and will be ready for lunch after a while."
She had known of their coming just a moment before they entered; he felt it, for she had snatched up the boy, and half hid her face in his dress. Very faded she looked; her cheeks, softly rounded once, were thin, and the pink and white of her complexion had grown sallow. The "long fair ringlets," too, were but limp, stringy curls, that hung without grace or fulness down her back. The eyes, pale blue, though radiant once with health and happiness, were weak and expressionless—save that a dumb terror was written in them now.
A smile, half contemptuous, half pitying, flitted over the young man's face as he passed through the room, with only a silent bow to the woman.