Mrs. Dunlap had responded to a telegram and left on the seven o'clock train for Boston to meet in conference with an important committee on some international work for young women.
Nelson Whitney had attended to all her wants as the son of the family might have waited on a powerful ally who had pulled them all out of distress.
He took Mrs. Sheldon and her daughter to a wonderful symphony orchestra concert with a soloist of world reputation, and then brought them back to the hotel refusing to remain for even a few minutes because they needed to rest. He attended them up to the door of their room, kissed Marguerite reverently, and then half shyly kissed her mother and said: "Good night, Mother!" with an accent in his tone that spoke volumes.
He left both mother and daughter tingling with joy and pride in him, and then at last the door was closed on the outer world, shutting them in alone together.
The girl hurried into the closet to hang up her coat and hat, feeling a sudden shyness before her mother, realizing all at once that there were some things that must be made clear between them before she could feel that all was right.
The mother removed her street things slowly, a light of almost other-worldly joy in her face. She was thinking of what her new friend had said to her that afternoon, and of the Bible verse she had quoted to her. And how wonderfully, and swiftly the promise had been made good to her. Why, she had scarcely waked from that refreshing sleep into which she had fallen pillowed on that promise, when the fulfillment had knocked at her door in the person of Nelson and Marguerite come to show her the ring.
Marguerite had been shy and lovely, but almost silent and they had not pressed her to talk much. She had been most humble and loving toward her mother and Mrs. Dunlap, thanking that great-hearted woman in no uncertain words, although they were few, and clasping her in a close penitent embrace when she left.
But to her mother Marguerite had as yet said not one word about the happenings of the last few days. She had let her lover do all the talking, and had sat with downcast lashes, and a childlike contentment in her face that yet spoke volumes of reassurance to the two who had waited through the long hours to know how it fared with her.
But now the time had come, and Marguerite knew it, to have it out with her mother.
She stayed in the closet several minutes arranging her things, being most careful about how her hat was placed on the shelf, and searching in her coat pocket for a handkerchief she was not sure was there. But at last she came out.