“Floy, my own little wife!” he whispered, bending over her to look into the blushing, happy face, “this moment repays me for all the loneliness, all the struggles of the past two years.”
Then he went on to tell of a long, weary, fruitless search for her.
He had returned to Chicago shortly after his mother’s death, hoping to learn her address from the Leas, but found their house closed and a bill of sale upon it. The newspapers told him of Mr. Lea’s defalcation and subsequent suicide, but he could not discover the whereabouts of the family, nor in any other way obtain a clue to the residence of her whom he was so anxiously seeking.
At length, abandoning its personal prosecution for the time, but engaging a friend to continue it for him, he went to Italy to pursue the study of his art, determined to make fame and money as a worthy offering to his “little love” when she should be found.
“It has been my dream by day and by night, dearest,” he said, “and has been partially realized. I have sold some pictures at very good prices, and am hoping much from some I have on exhibition here. If they do for me what I hope, I shall soon be able to make a home for you, where, God helping me,” he added low and reverently, “I will shield you from every evil and make your life as bright and joyous and free from care as that of any bird.”
How her heart went out to him in proud, fond appreciation as he said these words, his face, as he bent over her and looked into hers with his soulful eyes, all aglow with love and delight.
“But tell me,” he exclaimed as with sudden recollection, “how has it fared with you during all these long, weary months that we have been so far apart? Well, I trust, for you are looking in far better health than when I saw you last. But how came you here in Philadelphia? I hoped, yet called myself a fool for hoping, that I might find you here, for I could not suppose you had means to come, much as you might desire to do so.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “I did greatly desire to come, and a good Providence opened the way, Espy,” and she looked earnestly at him. “I have found the deed of gift, learned my true name, and discovered—no, not my mother,” as she saw the question in his eyes, “but her sister, who is now helping me in my search.”
“Oh, Floy, how glad I am! And I, too, will help!” he exclaimed. “Helping you to find your lost mother has always been a part of my dream, and I have been working to that end. I have thought that she, if living and prosperous, would come to this great Exhibition, this Centennial of our country, and the subjects for my pictures were chosen accordingly; I have painted for her eye more than for any other. But I shall not describe them,” he continued in response to her eager, inquiring look. “They were hung only this morning, and I will take you to see them.”