“But we must never betray the poor fellow’s secret to any one else—not even Lutie. He saved my life so nobly that his confidence shall be sacred.”
Daisie was more glad to hear this secret than he guessed, for she had been tormented by the mystery of who had wounded Royall ever since Mrs. Fleming had told her she had seen Dallas Bain commit the crime—not that she believed the story, but she feared the wicked woman might dare to accuse Dallas of it to gain revenge for his scorn.
The first day of May—would Daisie ever forget it?—Royall remained all day with his “sweetheart,” as he gayly called her, humoring her whims; and on kissing her good-by, he said tenderly:
“A dozen kisses this time, sweetheart, because I am going to New York to-night, to be gone a few days, to meet poor Lutie, who has written me that she has come home, disappointed, from California, and wants to see me about pressing business matters.”
How glad Daisie was afterward that she let him take all the kisses he wanted, and that she even clasped her white arms tenderly about his neck, and sent him away happy, confident that he was winning her love at last.
Was it true? Was she going to find happiness with him at last, or was it only a pitiful playing at love?
He was fated never to know.
Between the dark and the dawn, his train broke through a trestle, and crashed down into a raging hell of swollen waters. The twoscore souls among whom he perished were hurled in an instant from life to death.
Full of hope and joy, dreaming of his love—Daisie—Royall Sherwood went to death through the gates of sleep.
The waters gave up his bruised body the next morning, and on his lips was a smile—the smile that Daisie’s caress had left shining there.