CHAPTER XV.
THE SUN SHINING THROUGH THE CLOUD.
The dreary winter had passed away, the warm April sun shone brightly upon the college walls, and stealing through the muslin-shaded window looked smilingly into the room where two young men were sitting, one handsome, manly and tall, the other deformed, effeminate and slight, but with a face which showed that the suffering endured so long and patiently had purified the heart within and made it tenfold better than it might otherwise have been. The latter was Oliver Hawkins, and he sat talking with Lawrence Thornton, who had landed in New York the previous day, and had surprised him half an hour before by coming suddenly into his room when he supposed him far away.
During the entire period of his absence Lawrence had heard nothing of Mildred, for in his letters he had never mentioned her name, and it was to seek some information of her that he had turned out of his way and called on Oliver. After the first words of greeting were over, he said:
“You hear from Beechwood, I suppose?”
“Occasionally,” returned Oliver. “Mildred does not write as often as she used to do.”
“Then she’s there yet?” and Lawrence waited anxiously for the answer.
“There! of course she is. Where did you suppose she was?”
Lawrence had in his mind a handsome dwelling looking out on Boston Common, with “T. Hudson,” engraved upon its silver plate, and he fancied Mildred might be there, but he did not say so; and to Oliver’s question, he rather abruptly replied:
“Clubs, I’ve come home to be married!”