Two or three as blissful weeks as perhaps mortals ever know passed over the heads of our lovers. They were almost constantly together, alone in the crowd, for they haunted the Centennial daily, and Madame Le Conte, showing herself as considerate as at first, either remained at home or quickly dismissed them from attendance upon her, declaring that she wanted Mary, and Mary only, to walk beside her rolling chair, and help her to see the sights.
Espy’s pictures were much admired, spoken of with marked favor by the critics, and he had several good offers for them, but would not sell.
In this happy state of affairs, and with his Floy by his side, he was in the seventh heaven.
But all things earthly must have an end, and so it was with this season of almost unalloyed felicity to Ethel and Espy.
One evening the latter, hurrying out of his hotel, bound, as usual, for Madame Le Conte’s, nearly ran over an elderly gentleman who was just coming in. Scarcely looking at the stranger, he was brushing past with a hasty apology, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, while a familiar voice exclaimed, in loud tones of unfeigned, exultant delight, “Why, Espy! is it you? and don’t you know your own father, boy?”
“Father!” he cried, stopping short and wheeling about, half glad, half sorry at the meeting, the gladness uppermost as his parent grasped his hand in warm, fatherly greeting and gazed in his face with the proud, affectionate look often in other days, ere pride and greed of gold had come between them, bent upon the bright, promising boy.
“I did not know you were in the city, sir! When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday, or rather last night; slept late; spent the rest of the day at the Exposition; just got back. Come with me to my room. I want to talk with you; have no end of things to say. Had your supper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I too; got it out there. I’m dreadfully tired, but there’s an easy chair in the room; so can rest and talk at the same time. Here, let’s go up in the elevator. Capital thing, isn’t it?”