“One who has nothing to offer, nothing to give, not even the shelter of a roof-tree—a wanderer, a beggar!”
“I love you, Quintin!”
And the hands that had been clasped on my arm of their own sweet accord stole upward and rested lovingly about my neck. The eyes that had looked so keenly into mine were satisfied at last, and with a long sobbing sigh of content Mary Gordon’s head pillowed itself on my breast.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE LAST ROARING OF THE BULL.
“Come,” she said, after a while, “let us go to my father!”
And now, the rubicon being passed, there shone a quick and alert gladness upon her face. Her feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. The mood of sedateness had passed away, and she hummed a gay tune as we went down the stairs.
Alexander Gordon was coming across the yard to speak with his wife as Mary and I appeared hand in hand at the stair foot.
He stopped as it had been suddenly aghast when he caught sight of us.
“Mary!” he cried.
She nodded and made him a little prim curtesy.