“And, Hilda,” continued Mrs. Merryman in a low tone, and noticing that Mr. Merryman and Paul were engaged in parting words—“never, never let your Aunt Ashley’s prayer grow dim in your memory.”
“No, dear Aunt Merryman, I will always look upon it as my guide through life, and with it will associate you who have tenderly kept it in my remembrance; and see,” she added with a sudden flush of color to her cheeks, “it is being answered, in part, at least, for my home and that of Aunt Sarah Warfield will be one and the same.”
They all walked down the path to the waiting carriage, Mr. Merryman helped her in and bade her good-bye; then with a few last words they were on their way to the Dorton station while Mr. and Mrs. Merryman returned slowly to the house feeling that something sweet and pleasant had been removed from their home and lives, never again to be restored.
In a few minutes the travelers reached Baltimore, where the train halted, and to Hilda’s surprise and pleasure Mr. Valentine Courtney appeared at the window by which she was seated, his handsome face growing brighter when he saw his roses in her hand.
“They are lovely; I treasure them!” she said, touching them with her lips.
“And this, also, I hope,” he said, putting a small package in her hand.
“I know I shall,” she answered, flushing with surprise and anticipation, giving him a smile and glance which lingered long in his memory. She waved her hand in farewell, and they were gone. And he returned to his office, and in the evening to “My Lady’s Manor,” feeling more desolate than he had ever been in his life.
The world in which he had lived since taking possession of his home was not, as it had been, the matter-of-fact world of business alone. It was a new world, rosy with sweet companionship and hope; morning sunshine which had now given place to evening clouds and coming darkness.
He tried to think that he was no more desolate than before he had known Hilda, but his reasonings brought no comfort. He was not—as when Anna was taken from him—reconciled to the lot which he had in Christian faith looked upon as not only out of his power to prevent, but as something which God willed, and it was therefore his Christian duty to be submissive.
Had Hilda been a few years older, Paul Warfield should not have taken her away before he had made known his attachment. He had not done this, believing it not honorable to fetter her with a promise before she had seen anything of the world. Now she was gone, and he was grieved that he had given her no hint of his feelings. He realized that he had been unjust to himself and to her.