The first six months of her new life, of her resumed life, she spent in
Europe with her father and mother and Gardiner. Late in the fall they
were back at Saint X, at the old house in Jefferson Street. In the
following June came Scarborough. She was in the garden, was waiting
for him, was tying up a tall rose, whose splendid, haughty head had
bent under the night's rain.
He was quite near her when she heard his step and turned. He stood,
looked at her--the look she had seen that last afternoon at Battle
Field. He came slowly up and took both her hands.
"After all the waiting and longing and hoping," he said, "at last--you!
I can't put it into words--except to say--just--Pauline!"
She drew a long breath; her gaze met his. And in her eyes he saw a
flame that had never shone clearly there before--the fire of her own
real self, free and proud. "Once you told me about your father and
mother--how he cared--cared always."
"I remember," he answered.
"Well--I--I," said Pauline, "I care as SHE must have cared when she
gave him herself--and YOU."