He took the letter from Wright's outstretched hand.
CHAPTER IX
After the few swift months of spring and summer they were to be married, late in the fall.
Meanwhile above the lake at Forest Park, in a broad, open field, Mrs. Phillips's great house was rapidly rising. It was judged variously by those who had seen it, but it altogether pleased the widow; and the architect regarded it—the first independent work of his manhood—with complacency and pride. Helen had not seen it since the walls had passed the first storey, when, one day late in September, she made the little journey from the city with the architect, and walked over to the house from the Shoreham station, up the lake road.
It was a still, soft fall day, with all the mild charm of late summer that comes only in this region. The leaves still clung in bronzed masses to the little oaks; a stray maple leaf dipped down, now and then, from a gaudy yellow tree, and sailed like a bird along their path. There was a benediction in the country, before the dissolution of winter, and the girl's heart was filled with joy.
"If we could only live here in the country, Francis!"
"All the year?" he queried doubtfully.
"Yes, always! Even the worst days I should not feel lonely. I shall never feel lonely again, anyway."
As he drew her hand close to his breast, he said contentedly, with a large view of their future:—