CHAPTER III.
MOLLIE MEETS HER HERO.
The gentleman who had attracted Mollie's attention was above the medium height, broad-shouldered, erect, and with a fine, well-poised head which was covered with dark-brown hair. He was nicely, though not richly clad, although he looked the gentleman, every inch, while his bearing was as quietly dignified and self-possessed as if he had been the possessor of millions.
He was standing with his back toward Mollie, and she could not see his face, thus he was utterly unconscious of the beautiful eyes that were resting upon him and also of the commotion which he had roused in the heart of the possessor of those same lovely eyes.
It was not the stalwart figure, nor the proud, nobly formed head, which had especially attracted her attention. It was the strong and shapely hand that was firmly grasping the strap above him and upon the little finger of which he wore an exquisitely cut cameo ring.
Mollie had recognized it instantly—she would have known it anywhere, for it was the ring which she had given to Clifford Faxon, six years previous, when, acting upon the impulse of the moment, she had sought him out at New Haven to thank him, individually, for the lives he had saved when, though only a farmer's bound boy, he had prevented a terrible railroad wreck.
Again, as on that occasion, she was strangely thrilled by his presence, even though he was unconscious of her own.
How she wished that he would turn his head so that she could obtain a view of his face! She knew, well enough, that it was in keeping with the splendid form before her and with what she knew of the character of the man, but she wanted to see if she could trace familiar lines in it; if it still wore the same frank, honest expression of six years ago; if the magnificent brown eyes still retained their clear, earnest, straightforward glance; if the lips wore the same genial smile. Then she found herself wondering if he would remember her, or whether she had changed so much that he would merely glance indifferently at her and then pass her like any stranger. What right had she to think he would recognize her? she mentally questioned with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, the flush deepening again upon her cheeks.
She had been only a miss in short dresses and one among the hundreds who had been eager to honor him upon that occasion—to grasp him by the hand and shower grateful thanks upon him. True she had given him the ring as a souvenir, and told him she should love him all her life for what he had done—how her face burned as she recalled those impulsive words—but he had received from others what had doubtless proved to be a far more useful and practical gift—the generous purse of money.
But why did he wear the ring if he treasured no pleasant memory of the giver? This thought set her heart to fluttering again in a way that was highly foreign to the usual self-possession of the recent society belle, but it was quickly followed by the somewhat mortifying reflection that the cameo was a valuable and unique affair and quite a treasure of art to possess.