Jack caught and clasped her hands in his own.
“Now, now, Sylvia!” he said. “Don’t you mistake the old boy! I used to hate him!—but I know he’s one of the finest fellows living! Yes, truly! He used to come and see me, and talk to me—when I was able to listen—and he told me all about my father and about you—and he would say—‘If I explain things they’ll want to come and nurse you—and you’ll be nursed to death! If I hold my tongue they’ll be none the worse—and you’ll be spared all the emotional excitement and worry, and you’ll get well. And while you’re getting well I’ll be a sort of Cupid’s messenger.’”
Here Jack laughed, but there were tears in his eyes.
“Yes—a Cupid’s messenger,” he went on. “That meant that he would bring me all the news of you whenever he could! He was a queer old ‘Cupid’s Messenger!’ but there couldn’t be a kinder sort of ‘Cupid’ anywhere! I was pretty slow in recovering—but it’s been ‘slow and sure’ with me—and with all the care and good things the learned Craig has been showering on me, why! I’m as fit as ever I was! And I certainly owe it to your old ‘Philosopher’—the man I begged you not to marry while I was away—do you remember?”
Sylvia looked up. Her lovely blue eyes were wet and sparkling but there was a glint of mischief in her smile.
“Shall I marry him now you are home again?” she asked.
For answer he caught her in his arms and held her close and fondly.
“You’ll marry me and no one but me!” he said, tenderly. “That’s settled!”
There was a brief silence. The firelight flickered and leaped into flame, sending a warm glow through the room—the hues of the sunset seen through the window had paled into delicate amber like the petals of a daffodil. The restful pause was broken by quite an ugly sound,—a cough distinctly harsh and irritating. A gruff voice followed the cough.
“Dear me!” said the voice, querulously. “Humanity can never be original!—it always imitates! The old, old story!”