“Pray, what is that?”
Dick thrust a hand into the breast of his coat and brought forth a pocket book. From this he produced a little package, and opening the folds of paper disclosed the white rose which she had sent him on the night of his escape from La Siesta.
“Where did you get that?” she asked demurely.
“It is your rose—the rose you sent me.”
“I did not know you were so partial to roses as to keep them after they are withered.” Her voice trembled; she bravely tried to keep up the pretence of not understanding.
“It is not the gift I treasure—it is the thought of who was the giver.”
A blush stole over her beautiful face, while the long drooping eyelashes half concealed her brown eyes. Dick’s arms slipped around the girl’s slender waist.
“Merle, my dear, I love you. For months past I have known that there is no woman on earth for me but you. I would have spoken before, but I have always been afraid that you could not love me, and that talk of such a thing might terminate a friendship that had become my greatest pleasure in life.”
For reply, placing one hand on his shoulder, she just buried her face in his breast and gave way to tears—tears of joy, he knew, as he kissed her hair again and again, and then at last her lips when she allowed him to raise her face toward his.
“My darling,” he murmured, and the kiss she gave him back accepted and returned the words of fond endearment.