“But he don’t,” thought Ben. “He don’t care a straw for her, and she’s right when she says she won’t run after him any more. He don’t like Isabel none too well, and I ra-ally b’lieve the man is crazy.”
This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who accompanied Frederic to the depot, waiting there until the departure of the train.
“Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the niggers, and don’t on no account forget the picter,” were his last words, as he quitted the car, and then hurried home impatient to show Marian his surprise.
He found her sitting by the open window—a listless, dreamy look in her blue eyes, and a sad expression upon her face, which said that her thoughts were far away in the South-land, where Nature had decked her beautiful home with all the glories of the merry month of May and the first bright days of June. Roses were blooming there now, she knew, and she thought of the bush she had planted beneath the library window, wondering if that were in bloom, and if its fragrance ever reminded the dear ones of her. Did Alice twine the buds amid her soft hair, just as she used to do, and call them Marian’s buds, saying they were sweeter than all the rest?
“Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never see her again;” and her tears were dropping upon her lap just as Ben came in, and began:
“Wall, wee one, I’ve seen the Square, and talked with him of you.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben!”—and Marian’s face was spotted with her excitement—“what made you? What did he say? and where is he?”
“Gone home,” answered Ben; “but he had this took on purpose for you;” and he tossed the picture into her lap.
“It is—it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and Marian’s lip touched the glass, from which the face of Frederic Raymond looked kindly out upon her.
It was thinner than when she used to know it, but fuller, stronger-looking than when it lay among the tumbled pillows. The eyes, too, were hollow, and not so bright, while it seemed to her that the rich brown hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was Frederic still, her Frederic, and she pressed it again to her lips, while her heart thrilled with the joyful thought that he remembered her, and had sent her this priceless token. But why had he gone home without her—why had he left her there alone if he really cared for finding her? Slowly, as a cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow crept over her face—a shadow of doubt—of distrust. There was something she had not heard, and with quivering lip she said to Ben, “What does it mean? You have not told me why he sent it.”