“My ‘rose-lady’! All alone? May I come in?”
And Jack entered, holding out his hand, in the palm of which lay a little heart-shaped gold brooch.
“I’ve brought this back to you, dear!” he said, his voice tremulous as he spoke. “I managed to keep it all through everything,—you remember giving it to me? It’s been my safe-conduct!—yes!—I used to feel I couldn’t lose my grip on life as long as I had it with me. Now let me put it back on this dear little neck”—and kneeling in front of her he pinned it carefully among the lace of her gown. “There! It has seen a lot of fighting!—but I’ve brought it home to its sweet and beautiful native peace. And now—”
She was silent, but tears filled her eyes—and, as he knelt before her, his face upturned to hers, she gently put her arms round his neck and kissed him. With that she sealed her fate and settled her future.
CHAPTER XIX
THE next day,—oh, that next day! A day never to be forgotten by the pretty little Sentimentalist, though it left the Philosopher unmoved, or, as the slangy newspapers say, “cold.” He “knew it all the time,” he declared, and maintained an ineffable composure when Sylvia was called into her father’s study to receive the news. The worthy old doctor was slightly nervous.
“My dear,” he began, and his voice trembled,—then again—“My dear!”
“Yes, Dad! What is it?” And Sylvia, wondering a little at his tone and manner, put her arm about him, and repeated: “What is it?”
“My dear!” said her father again, possessing himself of the little hand that lay caressingly on his shoulder. “You are a lucky little girl! What do you think? Jack—your Jack—is a very rich young man! Very rich! Do you understand?”
Her blue eyes opened wide.