A wreck with a snow-white sail,
And the hand on my heartstrings thrums away,
But they only respond with a wail.
She had taken a daring step—she had called him back whom in anger she had forsaken years ago.
Now, she began to be frightened at her own boldness.
“He will not come, he will laugh me to scorn!” she sighed, and dropped her pallid face down on her arms.
She had given her orders that if a gentleman named Dalrymple called he should be shown to her boudoir at once.
With her face bowed on her arms, she did not hear footsteps falling on the thick velvet carpet, obeying the low directions of the servant who said respectfully, as he drew back the portières:
“You will find Mrs. Dalrymple there.”
Leon Dalrymple, tall, pale, handsome still, in spite of years and sorrow, advanced softly across the room, his heart beating with loud, suffocating throbs.