After an hour she had told him of the legacy.
"That place is less than a hundred miles from Chicago and we can just run down there today and back this evening!" he exclaimed, shifting in anxious excitement. "We can go there and back today, and be married tomorrow."
"No," she said slowly. "I'll suggest that we have the legacy brought here, and attended to according to the will and all that has for a lifetime to me been a mystery, be cleared here in your and your aunt's presence. And the day after—I will marry you." She dropped her eyes then in peculiar solemnity. He didn't understand her but the thrill of what was to come overwhelmed him, and in the next instant he held her in his arms.
They explained their plans to his aunt, who, because she disliked notoriety, readily agreed, and by special messenger the papers were brought to the city the following day and opened according to her mother's will.
The night before, as they were returning from the theatre, he said to her:
"Agnes, do you know—and I trust you will pardon me if it seems singular, but there is something about you I can never—somehow feel I never will, understand." He paused then and she could see he was embarrassed.
"It is in your eyes. I see them in this hour and they are blue, but in the next they are brown. Has any one ever observed the fact before?" he ended.
She nodded, affirmatively.
"Why is it, dear?"
"I don't know."