Hilda arose, a flush of joy illumined her sweet face, she advanced a step toward Mr. Courtney, then withdrew.
“She does not love me, Archie,” said Mr. Courtney, noticing the action, “youth and loveliness can have no affinity with middle age.”
“Please tell him, Archie,” said Hilda, gently, “that youth trusts to middle age for faithful love and protection. Hair tinged with silver is beautiful in my eyes.”
Mr. Courtney advanced eagerly and taking her hand in his pressed his lips upon it.
“Oh, Archie, dare I ask for this dear hand?”
“If he asks, Archie, it is his,” said Hilda.
“But the heart, Archie? The hand is valueless to me unless the heart goes with it.”
“Tell him, good Archie, that the heart has always been his, though part of the time it knew not its master.”
“I feel as if in a dream,” faltered Mr. Courtney; “an hour ago despairing, now filled with greater happiness than I had dared imagine.”
“We owe our happiness to Archie. He has been my good genius from childhood. He is my mascot.”