He said, as he shook her hand, “I am glad once more to thank you for your kindness of years ago.” He spoke slowly, as one who has had hopes and conquered them. “Is your mother with you?” involuntarily rose to his lips.
“No; I am alone, and teaching in your city.”
“I have been to your Eastern home, but was told that you had gone West; and further than that I could learn nothing.”
And then the past years were gone over. Mr. Colwell had failed, not with honor, and had been glad to go West, as his wife had recommended Grant to do years before, and had become lost in the whirl of a great city. Mrs. Colwell allowed it to be reported that Marion was to marry a rich widower. A wealthy family came to occupy the Colwell mansion, and society interested itself in the new and forgot the old. And now Marion, poor and unmarried, had come to the public school as a teacher.
The minister called often at the school, and finally the gossips suspected that the cause of education was not the only motive for his visits. Once when he called he laid down a pressed and faded red bud. “Do you remember those flowers I held so many years ago?” And, blushing, she told him of a similar one which she treasured.
A look of joy and half surprise came into his face. “Did you, then, think of one whom you supposed a poor boy, Marion?”
“And do you think of one who is in reality a poor girl now?”
The wedding was a quiet one, Marion wearing, at Grant’s request, a simple blue dress, with red roses in her hand. What were Mrs. Colwell’s thoughts as she looked at the book-agent, now her son, no one could know, for poverty had not made her less proud, but it had doubtless made her more considerate and courteous.
“I would sell books again to find you, Marion;” and her pretty blue eyes looked their happiness in response.