CHAPTER XLI.
THE LIVING PRESENT.
The bitter, cold days of winter are nearly at an end. The forces of nature are now exhausted and the elements have settled down into quiet rest.
"How time flies!" exclaimed the solicitor glancing at the calendar opposite his desk. "Three months to-day since I made that promise."
Phillip Lawson looked happy. His office had a cheerful aspect, and his surroundings seemed to indicate that the young man was contented and happy.
"Four o'clock and the fellow is not here! Well, I can afford to be disappointed to-day. It matters not." And putting on his great coat Phillip Lawson made his way down town and as he strode along at a rapid gate we were not surprised to hear one of the "oldest inhabitants" remark "Gracious! what a fine strapping fellow that young Lawson has got to be. I bet he'd turn the scales at one hundred and eighty."
The evening of the same day another scene is before us.
A graceful figure is seated beside the grate of the neat, cosey parlor which we have hitherto admired.
A deep blush rises upon the maiden's cheek as she turns over the leaves of the handsome volume lying in her lap. What causes that blush? What latent property lies hid in a withered moss rose? What beauty to arrest a maiden's eye?
These are questions to be decided by the fair ones who perhaps in like manner have treasured away, far from human eyes, a few, petals of a withered rose or perhaps "only a pansy blossom."