“Yes,” he remarked, with considerable ease and dignity, to which he had a right, for Harry Lawton had not made a failure of his life, even though it had not included Eudora and a fulfilled dream.
“Yes,” he continued, “I had some leisure; in fact, I have this spring retired from business; and I thought I would have a look at the old place. Very little changed I am happy to find it.”
“Yes, it is very little changed,” assented Eudora; “at least, it seems so to me, but it is not for a life-long dweller in any place to judge of change. It is for the one who goes and returns after many years.”
There was a faint hint of proud sadness in Eudora’s voice as she spoke the last two words.
“It has been many years,” said Lawton, gravely, “and I wonder if it has seemed so to you.”
Eudora held her head proudly. “Time passes swiftly,” said she, tritely.
“But sometimes it may seem long in the passing, however swift,” said Lawton, “though I suppose it has not to you. You look just the same,” he added, regarding her admiringly.
Eudora flushed a little. “I must be changed,” she murmured.
“Not a bit. I would have known you anywhere. But I—”
“I knew you the minute you spoke.”