‘Grieve not, my love, chase all thy fears away!’”
When she turned away at last, and sought Florian with outstretched hand, she faltered:
“It is perfect. I can find no words strong enough for my gratitude.”
“It is enough that I have pleased you,” the artist answered, gladly; and then she and Mae took leave, promising to bring Mrs. Maxwell to the studio tomorrow, after which the portrait would be removed to her own home.
Florian was deeply puzzled over Viola’s emotion, thinking:
“It looks somehow as if she really loved the fellow after all; but I do not understand it, for she certainly married him out of pure pique after being jilted by Desha, whom she claimed to love so dearly. Well, these women, they are past finding out.”
Viola accompanied Mae to the cottage, and they spent several hours unpacking the boxes of beautiful things she had brought for the trousseau.
Mae was wild with delight and gratitude. She sobbed on Viola’s neck:
“I do not deserve your goodness. There were weeks when I hated you and almost wished you dead.”
“That is all past now, dear. Let us forget it,” Viola answered, with a smothered sigh, as she held up a pattern of pale-blue brocade against Mae’s face, adding, admiringly: “This silver hue is very becoming to your complexion, Mae.”