“Derry, do you really care for me? Do you think that such a poor scarecrow as I can make you forget all that you have endured?”
He laughed, and the blithe ring of his mirth was so eloquent of his real feelings that the blood raced in her veins like quicksilver.
“We must begin by refusing to call each other hard names,” he cried. “In truth, I regard myself as a tolerably compact wreck, while ‘scarecrow,’ as applied to you, would make a cat laugh. Suppose we stick to ‘Derry’ and ‘Meg’ until the wonder passes, and we venture among those endearing terms in which our language is so rich. But, if you must have my opinion about your face—if you won’t be happy till you get it—I want to tell you now that before I kiss your lips I shall kiss that dear, scarred cheek, because I know well that, by God’s providence, when the Indians thrust you into the flames of your ranch, a mark was set on you that reserved you for me. Were it not for that, you could never have waited for me during the long years since we traveled together on the Panama. Why, Meg, there is no woman to compare with you in all this great city! But, look here! Confound my impudence! Man-like, I blandly ignore my own defects. How about my limp?”
“Derry, in my eyes, there is no man in all the world to compare with you.”
“Then we are profoundly satisfied with one another, and I really don’t see what we have to bother about otherwise. I am going now to tell your father that we have arranged to be married as soon as I arrive in England, which will be not more than two months from this day. I think he likes me, and will endure me as a son-in-law. If I obeyed my own impulses, I should not leave you again. I suppose that common sense urges me to visit New York and Colorado, just to look into my business affairs. In fact, in view of our marriage, I simply must go there. But I shall hurry, never fear. Come along, Meg. I’m wide awake now. You have exorcised the evil spirit that possessed me; but I shall be in a new fever till next we meet, and there is no more parting in this life.”
Thus was love reborn in Power’s heart. The pity of it was that he did not yield to the tiny god’s ardent whispers, and refuse to relinquish his chosen bride, even for a brief space. But, as he said, common sense demanded his presence in America, and common sense has shattered many dreams.
CHAPTER XVI
POWER DRIVEN INTO WILDERNESS
Power arrived at New York in mid-winter. He found that crowded hive humming, as usual, with life and its activities, but in a new and perplexing way. The Waldorf Hotel had become the Waldorf-Astoria, and, while doubling its name, had increased fourfold in size. Its main corridor had the bustle and crush of a busy street; but every face had an aspect of aloofness, almost of hostility. The old, intimate life of America had vanished. None paid heed to the newcomer. The spick-and-span occupants of the reception bureau evidently regarded him as Room Number So-and-so. Confused and mystified by the well-dressed throng of the hotel’s patrons, he failed to notice, at first, that it was composed of individuals, or groups, as unknown to one another as he was to the mass; that, in very truth, it was