As the dressmaker left, Espy came in and went direct to the parlor, where Floy sat in an attitude of deep dejection, her elbow on the arm of the sofa, her cheek resting on her hand.
He sprang to her side, and, as she started and half rose from her seat, caught both hands in his.
“Floy, Floy, what have they been doing? What have they been saying to you? Never mind it, darling, nothing shall ever come between us.”
The eyes that met his were full of anguish; the lips moved, but no sound came from them.
He threw his arms about her as if to shield her from harm. “Floy, dear, don’t mind it. I can’t bear to see you look so. Isn’t my love enough to make you happy? Ah, if you only knew how I love you, dearest!”
“But—oh, Espy, I’ve given you up! I’ve no right now to your love!”
“Given me up! Do you not love me, Floy?” His voice grew hoarse with emotion.
“You are all I’ve left—all.”
He bent his ear to catch the low-breathed words. His heart gave a joyous bound, and he drew her closer to him; but she struggled to release herself.
“Espy, you are free. I have given you up.”