“Hold on, John,” said Louis quietly. “I shall go with Mr. Randolph. They won’t hurt me, and I may be able to help him.”
Henry Randolph regarded him sharply. “I fancy you are safe enough,” he said; “both of us know very well who is the ring-leader in this thing. No, I sha’n’t mention his name, now or afterwards, for your sake.”
The young man bent his head silently, he could not answer; then he turned for one last, wistful look at his darling, his pink Rose, as he had loved to call her.
For the first time since their parting in the warm September dusk, their eyes met.
“Louis!” her white arms went out to him with the cry, and with one step he was upon his knees beside her, and they were holding each other so closely, it seemed that death itself would have been powerless to part them.
Another roar, another cry of “Randolph! Randolph!” and Louis rose to his feet.
“I must go, darling,” he said; then, with his wistful eyes upon her father, “You will forgive me, sir. I could not help it; I have loved her all my life.”
Still holding her lover’s hand, Pinkie stood up. “Papa,” she said, “I’m going to marry Louis. I don’t care if he is a shoemaker! I’d marry him if he was a rag-picker.”
“Your own education having especially fitted you for the pursuit of rags,” said Mr. Randolph. “But I’ve no time to discuss such folly now. Louis Metzerott, are you coming?”
“I am coming,” said Louis. “Don’t be frightened, darling; there is no danger for me, and I will take care of your father.”