As it was, these two began to reap a bountiful harvest of each.
Espy slackened his attentions, absented himself frequently, and when he returned to her side, Ethel’s manner was constrained and cold.
The girl poured her griefs, anxieties, and perplexities into no mortal ear. She would as soon have thought of telling them to a child as to Madame Le Conte; and so, feeling the need of a sympathizing friend and counsellor, she took to longing and looking for her mother more earnestly and constantly than she had since the return of her betrothed.
“Other girls have their mothers to go to,” she would sigh to herself. “Ah, that I had mine!”
Espy was not now always by her side, and on those days when she found herself alone at the Exposition she would go to Memorial Hall, and if able to make her way through the crowd to the place where his paintings hung, would stand and gaze, through gathering tears, upon Mrs. Kemper’s portrait.
Espy came upon her there one day, approaching her unperceived, and as he noted the sadness of her countenance, the pallor of her cheek, and saw her hastily brush away a tear, his heart smote him.
He pushed his way to her side, and putting his lips to her ear,
“Floy, darling!” he whispered, “come with me; take my arm, and let me help you out of this suffocating atmosphere.”
She made no reply, but suffered him to draw her hand within his arm and lead her away.