I cared nothing for this. "What hotel, Frank?" I demanded eagerly; "tell me the hotel."
"The St. Denis—opposite Grace Church, you know."
Little more was said and I soon bade Frank farewell. Then I walked slowly back to Gordon, trying to compose myself, struggling to subject my impulse to my judgment. But it was of no use. My heart was the heart of childhood once again; all I knew was this, that a few hours would bring us to New York, that we had intended going there anyhow—and that my uncle was within reach of one who had never ceased to love him.
I paused a moment before I opened the door and went in where Gordon was still sitting, gazing out on the ever fascinating scene.
"Well, dear, did you pump him dry?" he asked jauntily as I entered.
"Oh, Gordon," and now I was on his knee (woman's throne of power) with his face between my hands; "oh, Gordon, don't say No. Don't, Gordon—won't you do this for me, this, that I'm going to ask?"
Soon I had poured out the whole story to him. I noticed his brow darken a little at first, and the quivering lip told how much I had asked of him.
But Gordon was all gold through and through; he always was, my Gordon was, from that first hour when my eyes fell upon his face till now; and the love of this later day, although I suppose folks call us old, exceeds that early ardour as the noontide mocks the dawn.
"Yes, my wife," he said, stroking my hair and looking with almost pitying fondness on my face; "yes, brave heart and true—you were his before you were mine. And we'll go, Helen—we'll both go."