“This is the Burton cottage,” she answered, “and I am Ruth Burton. What can I do for you?”
“I would like to see Daisy Brooks, if you please. She is here, I believe?” he said, questioningly. “May I come in?”
Rex’s handsome, boyish face and winning smile won their way straight to the old lady’s heart at once.
“Perhaps you are the young lady’s brother, sir? There is evidently some mistake, however, as the young lady’s name is Stanwick––Daisy Stanwick. Her husband, Lester Stanwick––I believe that is the name––is also in Elmwood.”
All the color died out of Rex’s handsome face and the light from his brown eyes. He leaned heavily against the gate-post. The words seemed shrieked on the air and muttered on the breeze.
“Daisy is not his wife! My God, madame!” he cried, hoarsely, “she could not be!”
“It is very true,” replied the old lady, softly. “I have her own words for it. There may be some mistake, as you say,” she said, soothingly, noting the death-like despair that settled over the noble face. “She is a pretty, fair, winsome little creature, blue-eyed, and curling golden hair, and lives at Allendale. She is certainly married. I will call her. She shall tell you so herself. Daisy––Mrs. Stanwick––come here, dear,” she called.
“I am coming, Miss Ruth,” answered a sweet, bird-like voice, which pierced poor Rex’s heart to the very core as a girlish 64 little figure bounded through the open door-way, out into the brilliant sunshine.
“God pity me!” cried Rex, staggering forward. “It is Daisy––my wife!”