She had not had a holiday that summer, as Mr. Rosevelt said; indeed, no one had planned a day’s pleasure for her before since she came to America, and the thought of this little excursion was very gratifying to her. A whole day spent in the company of Archibald Sherbrooke would be a “red letter day” to her; and so, with thrilling pulses and bounding heart, she took leave of him and went away with Mr. Rosevelt, to talk about it, to dream about it, and, girl-like, to plan how to make herself as charming as possible for the occasion.
As for Archibald Sherbrooke himself, he sat down after his guests had departed, and allowed his thoughts to have their own way.
“She is as lovely as a dream,” he murmured, watching her from the window as she tripped lightly along by Mr. Rosevelt’s side. “I did not think when I started for America that I was coming to meet my fate; but so it proves. Unless I can win Star Gladstone’s love, the remainder of my life will not contain much that will be worth living for. She is as pure as a lily, beautiful as a veritable star; and yet there is something that I cannot quite understand about her; there is a reserve, an occasional sadness, that seems strange in one so young, while once in awhile she lets fall a word which makes me fear her life is not as bright as it should be. There is something of a mystery, too, about Mr. Rosevelt. How sort of ‘seedy’ and neglected he looked to-day, and I judged, when I met him before, that he was a man of abundant means, and without a care, pecuniarily.
“How startled my fair one looked when I showed her my picture,” he went on, with a luminous smile; “and I really believe that she realized something of the tenderness that I have put into it.”
He arose and went over to the easel, and removing the cloth, stood looking at the lovely girl with a world of affection in his handsome eyes.
“My glory-crowned Star,” he murmured, “I began to love you the moment that you fell exhausted into my arms when you were rescued from the hungry jaws of death, and I will spend my life in winning you if need be. I have seen no other woman your equal during all my sojourn in America—at least, no one who has so moved my heart—and I know of no one in all England whom I should care to win for my bride.
“Star Gladstone! It is a name symbolical of her nature,” he said, unconsciously repeating what Mr. Rosevelt had once told her, “or I am no adept in reading character. She will crown my life with light, and bring gladness and beauty into my home, if I can win her; and I think I am not mistaken in believing that I read the sequel to my own love-story to-day in her blushing face and shy, drooping eyes.”
Saturday came, and at an early hour Star awoke and arose to see what the morning promised, and to prepare for the anticipated pleasure of the day.
The sun rolled up from the east without a cloud, its light, a dusky red, tinging all the earth with a rosy hue—a sure harbinger of a hot, dry day, and just what Star of all things most desired.
“Why?” does curiosity question.