| "The bridge is broke and I have to mend it, mend it, | mend it, mend it." |
Even the horses' hoofs on the asphalt street rang out the same refrain.
Mrs. Marvin rose from her couch in some respects a changed woman. It seemed to her she had lived years in that illness of two weeks. In her soul a battle had been waged, and the struggle had left her passive and unresisting; she was waiting. The outward result was a strange, new gentleness of manner.
At the time of the Loan Exhibit she had been commissioned by a friend to purchase a wedding gift, which was to be, if possible, something antique. The silver candlesticks belonging to Mr. Clark rather pleased her; and thinking he might have other interesting things, she had written his address in her note-book, intending to go and see for herself, but her illness had interfered. When she was once more able to be out this was her first thought.
In the meantime the March Journal was being read by a good many persons who ordinarily never looked at it. The household at the Spectacle Man's naturally took a deep interest in it; and Miss Sherwin said she felt she ought to divide the profits, for if it had not been for the song and Mrs. Morrison's suggestion, the story would never have been written.
Frances laid emphatic commands upon her father to buy a copy the minute he landed in San Francisco; and Mr. Clark was also charged to remind Mark of the story, when he wrote.
In the hurry of sending telegrams, attending to his baggage, and making arrangements for an early start eastward, Mr. Morrison forgot this important matter, and it did not occur to him till, halfway on his homeward journey, he one morning saw the paper among others the train boy was carrying through the cars. He promptly purchased it, for it would never do to meet his little daughter without having read the story which was, she said, almost as good as one of his own.
Soon after leaving San Francisco, Mr. Morrison had made the acquaintance of a young civil engineer who was on his way to his home in Tennessee for a visit. He had frank, gentlemanly manners, and the cheerful, self-reliant air of a trained worker who loves his work, and the travellers were at once attracted to each other. As so often happens, they discovered mutual friends, and also that they had the same affection for Southern life and ways. Alexander Carter, as he gave his name, had recently accepted a position with a Western mining company,—a place of trust and responsibility of which he was justly proud in a modest way.
"You seem to have found something amusing," he remarked, seeing Mr. Morrison smiling over the magazine.
"Well, no, it happens to be a rather serious story, but something reminded me of my little daughter," was the reply. "By the way, Carter," he added, "it is odd, but the hero of this tale bears a remarkable resemblance to you—I mean in the illustration. See here!" Mr. Morrison held before him the picture of the young farmer as he knelt to release the white rabbit. "This is your profile exactly. Don't you see it yourself?"