“She is not like other children,” he replied, with a strange twinkle in his eye. “She forms likes and dislikes to people from simply hearing their name. Of course I agree with you it is not right to do so, but Birdie has been humored more or less all her life. I think she will grow to love you in time.”
Pluma’s lips quivered like the lips of a grieving child.
“I shall try so hard to make her love me, because she is your sister, Rex.”
He clasped the little jeweled hands that lay so confidingly within his own still closer, saying he knew she could not help but succeed.
The whole country-side was ringing with the coming marriage. No one could be more popular than handsome Rex Lyon, no one admired more than the young heiress of Whitestone Hall. The county papers were in ecstasies; they discussed the magnificent preparations at the Hall, the number of bride-maids, the superb wedding-presents, the arrangements for the marriage, and the ball to be given in the evening.
The minister from Baltimore who was to perform the ceremony was expected to arrive that day. That all preparations might be completed for the coming morrow, Rex had gone down to meet the train, and Pluma strolled into the conservatory, 156 to be alone for a few moments with her own happy thoughts.
Out on the green lawns happy maidens were tripping here and there, their gay laughter floating up to her where she stood.
Every one seemed to be making the most of the happy occasion. Lawn-tennis parties here and croquet-parties there, and lovers strolling under the blossoming trees or reclining on the rustic benches––it was indeed a happy scene.
Pluma leaned her dark head against the fragrant roses. The breeze, the perfume of the flowers, all told one story to the impassioned girl––the story of her triumph and her mad, reckless love.
She gathered a spray of the fairest flowers, and fastened them in the bodice of her dress.