The morning hours passed. The sun rose high in the heavens and still Imelda slept; slept until the noonday rays fell across the fair flushed face. The heat soon made the room uncomfortably warm, waking the sleeping maiden who, confused at first, did not understand how she came to be sleeping at the open window. But all in a moment memory returning with a swift rush, brought back the sweet hours of the departed night. The red life blood stained the fair cheek and obeying the first impulse Imelda’s face was buried in her hands, hiding the blushes that stained it. Such holy memories she would keep hidden even from the sun’s bright rays. Then brushing the tangled tresses from her brow she cooled the burning face with fresh cold water, darkened her room and disrobing lay down upon her bed to rest the aching limbs that had become cramped by reclining so long in an uncomfortable position.
But the desire to sleep had fled. Thoughts in the brown head revolved in chaotic confusion. The sweet love dream wove rosy fancies until chased by the more realistic thoughts of the near future, causing a feeling of sadness until rose-hued love again conquered.
Thus for an hour or more, in sweet reveries indulging, and when the excited nerves were becoming soothed, and soft slumber gently closing the drowsy eyes, a low rap sounded upon the door. The next minute Margaret was sitting upon the edge of the bed, chaffing and teasing Imelda for being so lazy.
“It is easy to be seen,” she was saying, “that you were born for something better than standing behind a counter, measuring laces. What a perfect lady you would make, to be sure. Your very first holiday you must use in practicing the airs, the manners of a fine lady.” Her clear sweet laugh rang out while she bent and kissed the red lips of her friend.
Imelda’s soft rounded arms wound themselves about the fair form bending above her and drew her close to her fast beating heart. Laying her lips to Margaret’s pink shell-like ears, she rapidly whispered; then drawing back, eagerly did she look into the now quiet and pretty sobered face of Margaret, who seemed to have sunk into deep thought.
“Margaret,” whispered Imelda. “Margaret what have you to say?” The large blue eyes rested lovingly on the dark face before her, darker hued still because of the burning blushes that were mantling it. Margaret’s answer was to bend low and lay her face close to hers. Her eyes shone brightly as she clasped Imelda to her breast.
“What have I to say? Why, as you followed the dictates of your heart you have done perfectly right. Wilbur is so grand so noble a man, how can a woman help loving him? You did not think I would find fault with you for doing precisely as I have done? Maybe, if I thought it were possible that you could win him away from me it might be that I would not treat the matter so coolly,” “Not like that,” she said. “Mine is a quiet joy; it is peace; it is balm. Like oil on troubled waters; a calm after a storm; a haven of rest. To lose him would bring me pain, deep and lasting, but not a complete wreck. But O, Margaret, I don’t want to think of anything like that. The mere thought hurts.” How long the girls would have gone on in this strain can never be known, for at this moment a rap again resounded on the door of the room. Imelda, frightened, quickly drew the covers closely about her form, the next moment she was merrily joining in the silvery laugh of Alice who had entered without waiting to be bidden. The dainty figure was attired in rich black lace that became the lily fairness of the sweet face exceedingly well. It was the first meeting between Margaret and Alice. “A pretty, merry child,” was Margaret’s inward comment.