“How long have we known each other, Gord? Let’s see, I’m tweny-seven this spring and I was eleven when mother brought me here and gave me this home; that’s sixteen years ago! It doesn’t seem possible—sixteen years! How time slips away!”
Gordon leaned forward toward her, elbows on his knees.
“Madelaine,” he asked suddenly, sincerely, “are you happy—really happy?”
“Why do you ask me such a question, Gord? Of course I’m happy! After all I’ve had done for me, why shouldn’t I be happy?”
“There seem to be times—forgive me, Madge, if I’m rude—but there seem to be times when I fancy you’re not. I don’t know exactly what it is—an expression on your face, perhaps, a glance of your eye—I could almost believe you were secretly grieving over something, dear. Isn’t it so?”
The girl felt the springs of emotion beginning to well deep in her spirit. She averted her face. She looked down at her hands, laced together suddenly and tightly in her lap.
“You know, Gordon, I’ve always had a slight mist of tragedy hovering over me, never knowing who my parents were, how I came to be found as I was. A woman could never quite forget that, especially when strangers have been kind to her and tried to treat her like their own.”
“I like that pretty little fantasy associated with you as a girl, Madge. I mean about the fairies leaving you for earthly persons to discover. It makes you very sweet and rare, Madelaine. To me you will ever be that—a fine and tender woman, brought to earth in babyhood by the fairies!”
“Gordon! Please—don’t!”
“How can I help it, Madelaine? Every man must have some sweet, rare, fine, tender woman in his life, mustn’t he—to work for—to please—to bring out the best that’s in him? And having been that to me, how can I help telling you so, dear girl?”