"Miss Darrell, you are a second Grace Darling. Allow me to congratulate you on what you have done to-day."
"Sir!"
"You will not shake hands, Miss Darrell? And yet we are not strangers."
"You labor under a mistake, sir! I do not know you! Will you allow me to pass?"
He stood straight before her, a smile curling his mustached lip at her regal hauteur.
"And has five years, five short years, completely obliterated even the memory of Richmond Wildair?"
"Richmond Wildair! Who was he?" she said, lifting her eyes with cool indolence, and looking up straight into the bronzed, manly face, from which the hat was now raised. "Oh, I recollect! How do you do, sir? Come, Miss Jerusha; let me help you up the bank."
He stood for a moment transfixed. Had he expected to meet the impulsive little girl he had left? Had he expected this scornful young empress, with her chilling "who was he?"
She did not notice his extended hand—that reminded him of the child Georgia—but, taking Miss Jerusha's arm, walked with her up the path, the proud head erect, but the springing step slow and labored.
He watched her a moment, and smiled. That smile would have reminded Georgia of other days had she seen it—a smile that said as plainly as words could speak, "You shall pay for this, my lady! You shall find my power has not passed away."