“Yes; now and forever,” she answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I am not afraid—I never should have been afraid to trust you, I have faults of my own: so why should I wish 371 you to be perfect? I care for you as you are; you will believe that?” for there was almost a sad humility in his face as he pleaded with her that went to her heart.
“Oh, yes; I believe what you tell me. You are truth itself, my darling,—the bravest and truest woman I have ever met. You do not know how happy you have made me, or how different my life will be when I have you by my side. Phillis, do you know how glad Grace will be about this?”
“Will she?” returned Phillis, shyly. They were walking homeward now, hand in hand toward the sunset,—so, at least, it seemed to the girl. No one was in sight, only the quiet country round them bathed in the evening light, and they two alone. “Archie!” she exclaimed, suddenly, and her beautiful eyes grew wistful all at once, “you will not let this make any difference to Grace? She loves you so; and you are all she has at present. You must never let me stand between you two. I am not so selfish as that.”
“You could not be selfish if you tried, dearest. How I wish Grace could have heard you! No; you are right. We must not let her suffer from our happiness. But, Phillis, you know who must come first now.” And then, as she smiled in full understanding, he put her hand upon his arm, and held it there. His promised wife,—Archie’s wife! Ah, the Drummond star was rising now in earnest! His life lay before him, like the road they were now entering, white and untrodden and bathed in the sunlight. What if some clouds should come, and some shadows fall, if they might tread it together to the end? And so, growing silent with happiness, they walked home through the sunset, till the spring dusk and the village lights saw them standing together on the threshold of Glen Cottage, and the dear faces and loving voices of home closed around them and bade them welcome.
THE END
