"I will go after her," said McElwin.
He walked away, heavy of foot. Eva turned to Lyman and asked him to sit down. He did so, and she remained standing. It reminded him of the night when they had met at the lantern picnic, only their position now were reversed, for then he had remained standing while she sat looking up at him. He took up a volume of Tennyson and opened it, and between the pages in front of him lay a faded clover bloom.
"A memory?" he asked, looking at her.
"Yes, a beautiful memory. Some one plucked it, threw it up and it fell in my lap—one day at the creek."
He looked at her searchingly. They heard McElwin in the garden calling his wife, "Lucy, oh, Lucy. Where are you?"
"Eva, I have not been honorable with you—I have held you not as a protector—I have held you selfishly—I love you."
"Lucy, where are you?" the banker called.
"I have not dared to hope that you could love me—I'm old and ugly. But I worshipped you and I can not set you free. I told your father that I would come to sign the paper, and I spoke sarcastically to him, but I will beg his pardon, for I honor him."
"Lucy, come here, quick!" the banker shouted in the garden.
"You did not think I could love you," she said, looking at him frankly, her eyes full of surprise and happiness; "you did not know me. I told my mother that with you life would be joyous in a shanty. Oh, my husband."