He had only been courteous, but she had built up many a hope from this little incident alone.
She had not seen very much of Lester Armstrong since that never-to-be-forgotten day, but her father had told her that he usually asked each morning: "How is your daughter, Miss Margery?" and once her father had said:
"Of all the young men whom I have met, I have the greatest regard for Lester Armstrong. Such young men are the salt of the earth. There is a future before him. When he earns a dollar he puts by more than half of it against a rainy day. He is not extravagant. Few young men making his salary would dress so very plainly and make his clothes do him as long. He has no bad habits; he neither smokes nor drinks, and that is something you can say of very few young men nowadays."
Margery looked up into her father's face with shining eyes. She made no answer, but a vivid flush crept up into her cheeks, and the little hands that were busy with the teacups trembled a little. She knew quite well that in the depth of his heart her father was hoping that she and Lester Armstrong would take a fancy to each other, and that in time that fancy might ripen into love, and instead of being only acquaintances, she and the assistant cashier might be nearer and dearer to each other.
Not long after this Margery Conway received a letter, a poem, rather, typewritten. There was no name signed to it, but she felt sure that it came from some one in the establishment of Marsh & Co. More than one salesman looked at pretty Margery Conway with admiring eyes, but she never thought of any of these. The truth was, it was sent by one of the bookkeepers, but the girl jumped at once to the conclusion that it was from Lester Armstrong. She imagined that from the tender, sentimental words. She read the beautiful poem over and over again, until she knew every word by heart. The lines even floated dreamily through her brain in her sleep. She would awaken with them on her lips. Ah, surely, the poem was from Lester Armstrong, she fully believed. It read as follows:
"What have I done that one face holds me so,
And follows me in fancy through the day?
Why do I seek your love? I only know
That fate is resolute, and points the way
To where you stand, bathed in amber light.
Since first you looked on me I've seen no night—
What have I done?
"What can be done? As yet no touch, no kiss;
Only a gaze across your eyes' blue lake.
Better it were, sweetheart, to dream like this,
Than afterward to shudder and awake.
Love is so very bitter, and his ways
Tortured with thorns—with wild weeds overgrown.
Must I endure, unloved, these loveless days?—
What can be done?
"This I say, 'Marry where your heart goes first,
Dear heart, and then you will be blessed.
Ah, how can others choose for you
What is for your best?
If you're told to wed for gold,
Dear girl, or for rank or show,
Stand by love, and boldly say,
"No, my heart cries no!"'"
Like most young girls, pretty Margery was sentimental. She slept with the folded paper beneath her pillow at night, and all day long it was carefully tucked away over her beating heart.
It was quite a week after receiving this ere she saw Lester Armstrong again; then her face turned burning red. Lester saw it, but how was he to dream that he was the cause of her emotion?