"Oh, who—who is calling me?" a voice cried, and I saw her clinging to a tree for support, near the bench where we had often sat. I ran to her, and the garden lamp light was in her eyes as she looked at me. I stood in silence, looking at her. I took her hand, and in silence we sat down. It was a long time before we spoke.
"Oh, that awful night!" she said, with her head bent low. "There was no one to help you, and when I heard the bell ring I seized a knife from the kitchen and threw a shawl over my head and ran down there to stab the man that tied the rope. I knocked the lantern over and I cut the cords—"
Half blind, I saw my tears gleaming in her hair. "And when you stepped out of the carriage the night of the play you thought your dress was caught. It was—I caught it to kiss it."
"Oh!" she cried—and that was all. We sat in silence, my tears gleaming in her hair. And we heard a voice and a step and we stood up. The Senator came, with his hand thrust forth, feeling as if he were blind. And on my shoulder he put his arm, and it was heavy. And "My—my boy," was all he could say—"My boy."
THIS BOOK HAS BEEN PRINTED
DURING MAY, 1897, BY THE
BLAKELY PRINTING COMPANY,
CHICAGO, FOR WAY & WILLIAMS.
