CHAPTER V.
THE BANK ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Allison had come into the room where Gerald and her father were conversing so earnestly just in season to catch the words of commendation uttered by the latter.
“I am sure you have not, Gerald,” he had said; “I would stake my fortune upon your integrity and upon your unswerving faithfulness to my interests.”
She had noted, with the keen perception of a loving heart, the troubled look in Gerald’s eyes, the anxious expression upon his brow, and she instantly knew that something had gone amiss with him, in spite of the fact that he seemed in perfect health, and was handsomer and more manly than ever.
But in the excitement of greeting him—when she saw his face light up with joy in her presence, when she felt the warm, lingering clasp of his hand, and detected the old-time thrill in his voice—she forgot all about it, for the time, and thought only of the pleasures of this unexpected meeting.
When Gerald finally left the house it was with a very much lighter heart than when he entered. His employer’s hearty and unqualified assurance of confidence was like balm to his wounded spirit; while his little interview with Allison had set all his pulses vibrating afresh with his deep and abiding love for her.
He had not seen her for many months, and she seemed to have grown a hundredfold more lovely than when he had bidden her adieu on that bright Sunday morning so long ago.
He wondered if she had forgotten the evening previous—their interview upon the veranda, where, with the moonlight streaming upon them in its soft effulgence, they had been conscious only of each other’s presence and the happiness that had thrilled every fiber of their being. Did she remember their parting when the clock struck ten? That blissful moment when their lips met in that involuntary caress? That look into each other’s eyes, that low-breathed “Allison!” “Gerald!” which had expressed so much?