“Oh, sir! who are you?” she cried. “I am sure you must be Master Geoffrey. You are so like your father. I should know you anywhere, and I never could forget the boy I loved. You are Geoffrey, aren’t you? and don’t you remember—Margery?”
She ended with a sob, and her hold tightened on his arm as if she feared to lose him.
Geoffrey had half-suspected her identity when she had inquired so eagerly about Farmer Bruce; but it was a shock to him, nevertheless, to find his suspicions thus verified, and he felt that, if he should never learn anything more definite regarding his father, he should feel more than repaid for his journey hither, just to have found Jack and Margery, seen them restored to each other, and the shadow removed from their lives.
He seized the trembling hand that lay upon his arm, and shook it heartily.
“Yes, I am Geoffrey, and I do remember Margery,” he said, in a glad, earnest tone.
The poor, long-suffering, wandering creature dropped her head against his horse’s neck, and burst into a passion of tears.
“Heaven bless you, Master Geoffrey, for owning it at last—my heart’s been well-nigh crushed since you denied it, and ran away from me in New York,” she said, brokenly, between her sobs.
“Denied it, and ran away from you in New York!” repeated the young man, astonished.
“Yes, sir; sure you haven’t forgotten that day when you bought the roses of me, and I asked you if you wasn’t Geoffrey Dale? You told me no—your name was Everet, and you didn’t know anything about Jack, nor about any of the other things I talked of.”
A light broke upon Geoffrey’s mind.