Lena Rook thought not of the gold. She thought only of her old playmate, and wondered why he was staying so long away.
Was he never going to return? He who had won the girl’s heart—the firstlings of her young love—had stood under the forest tree, clasping her in his arms, and telling her she had won his!
And on that dread night, when he lay upon the couch, slowly recovering from the terrible strangulation, was not the first word breathed forth from his lips her own name—Lena?
And to have gone away, and staid away, and forgotten all this!
It was not strange she wondered, not strange she grieved—or that the cloud of melancholy, already remarked upon, sat almost continually on her countenance.
She had not forgotten him—not for a single day. Throughout the long lonely years, there was scarce an hour in which she did not think, though not permitted to speak, of him. She had been true to him—both in heart and hand—true against scores of solicitations, including that of Alfred Brandon, who was now seeking her hand in marriage, determined upon obtaining it.
But she had resisted his suit—even braving the displeasure of her father who was backing it.
And all for the memory of one who had gone away, without explaining the cause of his departure, or making promise to return.
Often had she thought of this, and with bitterness—at times, too, with a feeling akin to spite.
But now with Pierre once more in her presence, his tall graceful form before her eyes, she instantly forgot all, and threw herself sobbing upon his breast.