The perfume was violet, and she remembered to-night how, for many a day, she could not smell violets without recalling that moment, and seeing again the strong, earnest, eager face, with the fire of a mighty love burning in the eyes.
To-night she heard again the yearning, pleading voice as he had cried: “Madge, Madge, my darling! Can you ever guess how great is my love for you? Tell me, dear, do you, can you, love me in return? Will you be my wife? Will you come into all my life to bless it? And let me be wholly yours to help, to bless, to strengthen, to love, to cherish you? Tell me, darling!”
And she had cried, almost piteously:
“I don’t know how to answer you, pastor. It is all so sudden. I knew, of course, that we were great friends, and I am sure I like you very much, but—this proposal! Why, I never dreamed that you cared for me like that, for how could I be a minister’s wife? I am such a gay, thoughtless, foolish little thing—I——”
There had followed more tender pleading, and she had finally said, “If you love me, Homer, as you say you do, please do not bother me any more now. Wait until I come back from Europe—then—then——”
“What, Madge?” he had cried softly, eagerly.
“If I can honestly say ‘Yes,’” she had replied, “I will and I will not even wait for you to ask me again.”
He had bent over her. His gaze held her fascinated. She thought he was going to take toll of her lips before his right was confirmed. But at that instant there had come a rush of feet, a sound of many voices. The curtain was flung aside, just as her fingers strayed over the keys of the instrument, and the pastor succeeded in regaining his old unseen nook.
“I guess Miss Julie’s waitin’ fur yer, Miss Madge, ter go ter yer supper,” bawled an old deacon of the church.
She had swept the ivory keys with rollicking touch, and sang in gayest style: