It wanted but a week to Jim Hardy's wedding day. Preparations were in
full swing, and the Clays' house was, so to speak, turned topsy-turvy.
Jim was considered a most lucky man. He was to get five hundred pounds
with his bride. With that five hundred pounds Louisa proposed that Jim
should set up in business for himself. He and she would own a small
haberdasher's shop. They could stock it well, and even put by a
nest-egg for future emergencies. Jim consented to all her proposals.
He felt depressed and unlike himself. In short, there never was a more
unwilling bridegroom. He had never loved Louisa. She had always been
repugnant to him. In a moment of pique he had asked her to marry him,
and his repentance began half an hour after his engagement. Still he
managed to play his part sufficiently well. Louisa, whose passion for
him increased as the days went on, made no complaint; she was true to
her promise, and never mentioned Alison's name, and the wedding day
drew on apace. The young people's banns had already been called twice
in the neighboring church, the next Sunday would be the third time, and
the following Thursday was fixed for the wedding. Jim came home late
one evening tired out, and feeling more depressed than usual. A letter
was waiting for him on the mantelpiece. He had already given notice to
quit his comfortable bedroom. He and Louisa were to live for a
time--until they had chosen their shop and furnished it--with the
Clays. This arrangement was very disagreeable to Jim, but it did not
occur to him to demur; his whole mind was in such a state of collapse
that he allowed Louisa and her people to make what arrangements they
pleased.
"There's a letter for you upstairs," said his landlady, as he hurried
past her.
The young man's heart beat fast for a moment. Could Alison by any
chance have written to him? He struck a light hastily and looked at
the letter, which was lying on his table. No, the handwriting was not
Alison's, and when he opened it the first thing he saw was a check,
which fell out.
"My Dear Nephew [ran the letter], I hope this finds you well, as it
leaves me. You must be a well-grown lad now, and, in short, have come
to full man's estate. I have done well in Australia, and if you like
to join me here, I believe I can put you in the way of earning a good
living. I inclose a draft on the City Bank, London, for one hundred
pounds, which will pay your passage and something over. If you like to
come, you will find me at the address at the head of this paper. I am
making lots of money, and if you have a head on your shoulders, you can
help me fine in my business. If you don't care to come, you may use
the money to start housekeeping when you marry; but if you are wise you
will take my advice.
"Your affectionate uncle,
"JAMES HARDY."
Jim fingered the check, and looked absently before him.
"Why shouldn't I get clear out of the whole business?" he said. "I
could leave the country to-morrow with this money, and go out and join
Uncle James, and make my fortune by and by. Why should I stick to
Louisa when I hate her? It's all over with Alison and me. Oh, Alison,
how could you love another fellow when I loved you so well, and was so
true to you? I can't understand it--no, I can't. I don't believe for
a moment that she was telling me the truth the other day--why, there is
no other fellow. I have made inquiries and I can't hear of anyone. It
isn't as if hundreds wouldn't want her, but she is keeping company with
no one. I believe it was an excuse she made; there's a mystery at the
bottom of it. Something put her out, and she was too proud to let me
see what it was. And, oh dear, why was I so mad as to propose marriage
to a girl like Louisa Clay? Yes; why shouldn't I get quit of the thing
to-night? I have the money now. I can take Uncle James's advice
to-night; why shouldn't I do it?"
Jim stood straight up as these thoughts came to him. He slipped the
foreign letter into his pocket, walked with a long stride to the
window, flung the sash open, and looked out into the night.
"I can't do it," he muttered; "it isn't in me to be an out-and-out
scoundrel. She is not the girl I want, but I have promised her, and I
must stick to it; all the same, I am a ruined man. Oh, if Alison had
only been true to me."
"Now, old chap, what are you grumbling to yourself for?" said a voice
just behind him.
He turned abruptly and met the keen-eyed, ferret-looking face of the
detective Sampson. Sampson and Jim had not been very friendly lately,
and Jim wondered now in a vague sort of way why his quondam friend had
troubled himself to visit him.
"Sit down, won't you?" he said abruptly. "There's a chair."
"I'll shut the door first," said Sampson. "I have got a thing or two
to say to you, and you may as well hear me out. You aint behaved
straight to me, Jim; you did a shabby thing behind my back; but, Lor'
bless you, ef it's saved me from a gel like Louisa Clay, why, I'll be
obleeged to you to the end of my days. Look here, I was very near
committing myself with that girl. 'Twasn't that I loved her, but I
don't go for to deny that she was good-looking, and she certainly did
tickle my fancy considerable, and then when I thought of the tidy bit
of silver that she would have from her father, I made up my mind that
she would be a good enough match for me; but mind you, I never thought
her straight--I never yet was mistook in any character I ever studied
carefully. I couldn't follow out my calling if I did, Jim, old chap;
and that you know well."
"I don't suppose you could, George," said Jim; "but I think it only
fair to tell you before you go a step further, that I am engaged to
Louisa, and I can't hear her run down by anyone now. So you may as
well know that first as last."
"Engaged or not," said Sampson, with curious emphasis, "you have got to
hear a thing or two about Louisa Clay to-night."
"If it is bad, I won't hear it," said Jim, clenching his big hand.
"Then you are a greater fool than I took you for; but, look here,
you've got to listen, for it concerns that other girl, the girl you
used to be so mad on, Alison Reed."
Jim's hands slowly unclenched. He turned round and fixed his great
dark eyes with a kind of hungry passion in them on Sampson's face.
"If it has anything to do with Alison I am bound to hear it," he said.
"Then you love her still?" said Sampson, in surprise.
"Love her!" replied Jim; "aye, lad, that I do. I am near mad about
her."
"And yet you are going to marry Louisa Clay."
"So it seems, George, so it seems; but what's the good of talking about
what can't be cured? Alison has thrown me over, and I am promised to
Louisa, and there's an end of it."
"Seems to me much more like that you have thrown Alison over," said
Sampson. "Why, I was in the room that night of the play-acting, and I
saw Alison Reed just by the stairs, looking as beautiful as a picter,
and you come up with that other loud, noisy gel, and you talked to her
werry affectionate, I must say. I heard what she said to you--that
there wasn't a thing in heaven above, or in earth beneath, she wouldn't
do for you. Maybe Alison heard them words too; there's no saying. I
was so mad at what I thought Louisa's falsehood to me, that I cut the
whole concern fast enough. Well, that's not what I have come to talk
on to-night; it is this: I think I have traced the theft of that
five-pound note straight home at last."
"You haven't?" said Jim. "Oh, but that's good news indeed; and Alison
is cleared?"
"She is; but I don't see how it is good news to you, for the theft is
brought home to the gel what is to be your wife in less than a week."
"Nonsense!" said Hardy. "I always said you were too sharp on Louisa.
She aint altogether to my taste, I am bound to confess, although I have
promised her marriage; but she's not a thief. Come, now, you cannot
get me to believe she's as bad as that."
"You listen to me, Hardy, and stay quiet," said Sampson. "I can put
what I know in a few words, and I will. From the very first I
suspected Louisa Clay. She was jealous of Alison, and had a motive for
tryin' to do her a bad turn. She was over head and ears in love with
you, as all the world could see. That, when I saw her first, I will
own, I began to think as she'd be a good mate for myself, and it come
over me that I wouldn't push the inquiry any further. It might be well
to know a secret about your wife, to hold over her in case she proved
troublesome by'm-by. I am not a feller with any high notions, as
perhaps you have guessed--anyhow, I let the thing drop, and I went in
for Louisa for the sake of her money. When she threw me over so sharp,
you may suppose that my feelings underwent a head-to-tail sort of
motion, and I picked up the clew pretty fast again, and worked on it
until I got a good thread in my hand. I needn't go into particulars
here about all I did and all I didn't do, but I managed first of all to
pick up with Shaw, your master. I met him out one evening, and I told
him that I knew you, and that you were in an awful taking because your
gel, Alison Reed, was thought to have stolen a five-pound note. He
talked a bit about the theft, and then I asked him if he had the number
of the note. He clapped his hand on his thigh, and said what a fool he
was, but he had never thought of the number until that moment. He had
looked at it when he put the note in the till as he supposed, and by
good luck he remembered it. He said off to me what he believed it was,
and I entered it in my notebook.
"'I have you now, my fine lady,' I said to myself, and I went off and
did a little bit of visiting in the smartest shops round, and by and by
I heard further tidings of the note. It had been changed, two days
after it had been stolen, by a young woman answering to Louisa Clay in
all particulars. When things had come as far as that, I said to
myself----
"'Ef there is a case for bluff, this is one. I'll just go and wring
the truth from Louisa before she is an hour older.'
"So I went to see her only this morning. I blarneyed her a bit
first--you know my style--and then I twitted her for being false to me,
and then I got up a sort of pretense quarrel, and I worked on her
feelings until she got into a rage, and when she was all hot and
peppery, I faced right round on her, and charged her with the theft.
"'You stole that five-pound note from the till in Shaw's shop,' I said,
'and you let Alison Reed be charged with it. I know you stole it, so
you needn't deny it. The number of the note was, one, one, one, seven.
I have it written here in my note-book. I traced the note to Dawson's,
round the corner, and they can swear, if necessary, in a court of
justice, that you gave it to them in exchange for some yards of black
silk. By the way, I believe that is the very identical silk you have
on you this minute. Oh, fie, Louisa! you are a bad 'un.'
"She turned white as one of them egg-shell china cups, and she put her
hands before her eyes, and her hands shook. And after a bit she said:
"'Oh, George, don't have me locked up, and I'll tell you everything."
"'Well, you'll have to put it in writing,' I said, 'or I won't have a
crumb of mercy on you.'
"So I got the story out of her, Jim. It seems the note had never been
dropped into the till at all, but had fallen on the floor just by the
manager's desk, and Louisa had seen it and picked it up, and she
confessed to hoping that Alison would be charged with it. Here's her
confession in this envelope, signed and witnessed and all. So now, you
can marry her come Thursday ef you like."
Sampson got up and stretched himself as he spoke.
Jim's face, which had turned from red to white, and from white again to
crimson, during this brief narrative, was now stern and dark.
"I am obliged to you, Sampson," he said, after a pause.
"What will you do?" asked the detective, with some curiosity. "I see
this is a bit of a blow, and I am not surprised; but what will you do?"
"I can't tell. I must think things over. Do you say you have the
confession in your pocket?"
"Yes; in my breast pocket. Here is the envelope sticking out above my
coat."
"Give it to me," said Jim, stretching out his big hand.
"Not I. That's my affair. I can make use of this. Why, I could hold
a thing of this sort over the head of your fair bride, and blackmail
her, if necessary."
"No, no, Sampson; you are not a ruffian, of that sort."
George Sampson suddenly changed his manner.
"As far as you are concerned, Jim, I am no ruffian," he said. "To tell
the plain truth, I have always liked yer, and I'll act by you as
straight as a die in this matter. If you never do anything else,
you've saved me from being the husband of that gel, and I'll be
thankful to you for it to my dying day. But for the Lord's sake, don't
you put yourself into the noose now. You can't be so mad, surely."
"Leave me for to-night, Sampson," said Jim in a voice of entreaty. "I
can't say anything, I must think. Leave me for to-night."
The detective got up slowly, whistled in a significant manner, and left
the room.
"Now, if Jim Hardy is quixotic enough to marry Louisa Clay after what I
have said, I'll never speak to a good man again as long as I live," he
muttered.
But Jim Hardy had not made up his mind how to act at all; he was simply
stunned. When he found himself alone he sank down on a chair close to
his little center table, put his elbows on the table, and buried his
head in his big hands. The whole bewildering truth was too much for
him. He was honest and straight himself, and could not understand
duplicity. Louisa's conduct was incomprehensible to him. What should
he do now? Should he be true to one so false? This question began
dimly to struggle to obtain an answer in his mind. He had scarcely
begun to face it, when a knock at the door, and the shrill voice of his
landlady calling out, "I have got a letter for you, Mr. Hardy, you are
in favor with the post to-night," reached him.
He walked across the room, opened the door, and took the letter from
the landlady's hand. She gave him a quick, curious glance; she saw
shrewdly enough that something was worrying him.
"Why do he go and marry a girl like that Clay creature?" she muttered
to herself as she whisked downstairs. "I wouldn't have her if she had
double the money they say he's to get with her."
Jim meanwhile stared hard at the writing on his letter. It was in
Louisa Clay's straggling, badly formed hand. He hastily tore open the
envelope, and read the brief contents. They ran as follows:
"DEAR JIM,--I dare say you have heard something about me, and I don't
go for to deny that that something is true. I was mad when I did it,
but, mad or sane, it is best now that all should be over between you
and me. I couldn't bear to marry you, and you knowing the truth. Then
you never loved me--any fool could see that. So I am off out of
London, and you needn't expect to see me any more.
"Yours no longer,
"LOUISA CLAY."
Jim's first impulse when he had read this extraordinary and unexpected
letter was to dance a hornpipe from one end of the room to the other;
his next was to cry hip, hip, hurrah in a stentorian voice. His last
impulse he acted upon. He caught up his hat and went out as fast as
ever he could. With rapid strides he hurried through the crowded
streets, reached the Bank, and presently found himself on the top of an
omnibus which was to convey him to Bayswater. He was following his
impulse with a beating heart, eyes that blazed with light, and lips
that trembled with emotion. He had been a prisoner tied fast in chains
of his own forging. All of a sudden he was free. Impulse should have
its way. His heart should dictate to him in very earnest at last.
With Louisa's letter and his uncle's letter in his pocket, he presently
reached the great house where Mrs. Faulkner lived. He had often passed
that house since Alison had gone to it, walking hungrily past it at
dead of night, thinking of the girl whom he loved but might never win;
now he might win his true love after all--he meant to try. His
triumphant steps were heard hurrying down the pavement. He pulled the
servants' bell and asked boldly for Alison.
"Who shall I say?" asked the kitchen-maid who admitted him.
"Say Jim Hardy, and that my message is urgent," was the reply.
The girl, who was impressed by Jim's goodly height and breadth, invited
him into the housekeeper's parlor, where Alison joined him in a few
minutes. Her face was like death when she came in; her hand shook so
that she could scarcely hold it out for Jim to clasp. He was master,
however, on this occasion--the averted eyes, the white face, the
shaking hand were only all the more reasons why he should clasp the
maiden he loved to his heart. He strode across the room and shut the
door.
"Can we be alone for a few minutes?" he said.
"I suppose so, Jim, if--if it is necessary," said Alison.
"It is necessary. I have something to say."
Alison did not reply. She was trembling more than ever.
"I have got to say this," said Jim: "I am off with Louisa Clay. We're
not going to be married. I don't want her, I never wanted her, and now
it seems that she don't want me. And, Alison, you are cleared of that
matter of the five-pound note."
"Cleared?" said Alison, springing forward, and her eyes lighting up.
"Yes, darlin', cleared," said Jim boldly. "I always knew you were as
innocent as the dawn, and now all the world will know it. Sampson,
good fellow, ferreted out the truth, and it seems--it seems that Louisa
is the thief. Sampson can give you all particulars himself to-morrow;
but I have come here now to talk on a matter of much more importance.
I have always loved you, Alison, from the first day I set eyes on you.
From that first moment I gave you all my heart; my life was yours, my
happiness yours, and all the love I am capable of. In an evil hour a
shadow came atween us; I was mad at losing you, and I asked Louisa to
wed me; but though I'd 'a' been true to her--for a promise is a
promise--I'd have been the most miserable man what ever lived, for my
heart would have been yours. I'd have committed a sin, an awful sin,
but, thank God, I am saved from that now. Louisa herself has set me
free. There's her letter; you can read it if you want to."
Jim pulled it out of his pocket, and thrust it before Alison's dazzled
eyes.
"No, no!" she said, pushing it from her; "your word is enough. I don't
want to see the letter."
She hid her face in her shaking hands.
"I was always true to you," continued Jim, "in heart at least; and now
I want to know if there is any reason why you and me should not be wed
after all. I have got money enough, and I can wed you and give you a
nice home as soon as ever the banns are read, and there'll be a corner
for Grannie too, by our fireside. Come, Alison, is there any reason,
any impediment? as they say in the marriage service. There aint really
any other feller, is there, Ally? That was a sort of way to cheat me,
Ally; wasn't it, darlin'?"
"Oh, Jim, yes, yes," cried Alison. "I always loved you with all my
heart. I loved you more than ever the day I gave you up, but I was
proud, and I misunderstood, and--and--oh, I can say no more; but I love
you, Jim, I love you. Oh, my heart is like to burst, but it is all
happiness now, for I love you so well--so true--so very, very dearly."
"Then that's all right," he answered solemnly. He took her into his
arms there and then and held her fast to his beating heart. They
kissed each other many times.
Alison and Jim were married, and Grannie went to live with them. She
was indispensable to the brightness of their home, and even more
indispensable to the success of their little shop; for Grannie had a
natural turn for business, and if her eyes were the kindest in all the
world, they were also the sharpest to detect the least thing not
perfectly straight in those with whom she had to deal. So the shop,
started on thoroughly business principles, flourished well. And the
young pair were happy, and the other children by and by made a good
start in the world, and Grannie's face beamed more and more lovingly as
the years went on, but never to her dying day did she reveal the secret
of her visit to the workhouse.
"It was the one piece of bad luck in all my happy life," she was wont
to murmur to herself, then she would smile and perk up her little
figure. "Lord knows, I needn't ha' been frighted," she would add;
"comin' o' the breed of the Phippses and Simpsons, I might ha' known it
wouldn't last--the luck o' the family bein' wot it is."
THE END
THE FLOWERS' WORK
"See, mother! I've finished my bouquet. Isn't it beautiful? More so,
I think, than those made by the florist which he asked two dollars for,
and this has cost me but seventy-five cents."
"Yes, yes, it is very pretty. But, dear me, child, I cannot help
thinking how illy we can spare so much for such a very useless thing.
Almost as much as you can make in a day it has cost."
"Don't say _useless_, mother. It will express to Edward our
appreciation of his exertions and their result, and our regards. How
he has struggled to obtain a profession! I only wish I could cover the
platform with bouquets, baskets and wreaths tonight, when he receives
his diploma."
"Well, well; if it will do any good, I shall not mind the expense.
But, child, he will know it is from you, and men don't care for such
things coming from home folks. Now, if it was from any other young
lady, I expect he'd be mightily pleased."
"Oh, mother, I don't think so. Edward will think as much of it, coming
from his sister-in-law, as from any other girl. And it will please
Kate, too. If _we_ do not think enough of him to send him bouquets,
who else could? Rest easy, mother, dear; I feel quite sure my bouquet
will do much good," answered Annie, putting her bouquet in a glass of
water.
She left the room to make her simple toilet for the evening.
Mrs. Grey had been widowed when her two little girls were in their
infancy. It had been a hard struggle for the mother to raise her
children. Constant toil, privation and anxiety had worn heavily on her
naturally delicate constitution, until she had become a confirmed
invalid. But there was no longer a necessity for her toiling. Katy,
the elder daughter, was married; and Annie, a loving, devoted girl,
could now return the mother's long and loving care. By her needle she
obtained a support for herself and mother.
Katy's husband held a position under the government, receiving a small
compensation, only sufficient for the necessities of the present, and
of very uncertain continuance. He was ambitious of doing better than
this for himself, as well as his family. So he employed every spare
hour in studying medicine, and it was the night that he was to receive
his diploma that my little story begins.
The exercises of the evening were concluded. Edward Roberts came down
the aisle to where his wife and Annie were seated, bearing his
flowers--an elegant basket, tastefully arranged, and a beautiful
bouquet. But it needed only a quick glance for Annie to see it was not
_her_ bouquet. Although the flowers were fragrant and rare, they were
not so carefully selected or well chosen. Hers expressed not alone her
affection and appreciation, but _his_ energy, perseverance and success.
"Why, where is my bouquet? I do not see it," asked Annie, a look of
disappointment on her usually bright face.
"Yours? I do not know. Did you send me one?" returned her
brother-in-law.
"Indeed I did. And such a beauty, too! It is too bad! I suppose it
is the result of the stupidity of the young man in whose hands I placed
it. I told him plain enough it was for you, and your name, with mine,
was on the card," answered Annie, really very much provoked.
"Well, do not fret, little sister; I am just as much obliged; and
perchance some poor fellow not so fortunate as I may have received it,"
answered Edward Roberts.
"Don't, for pity's sake, let mother know of the mistake, or whatever it
is, that has robbed you of your bouquet. She will fret dreadfully
about it," said Annie.
All that night, until she was lost in sleep, did she constantly repeat:
"I wonder who has got it?"
She had failed to observe on the list of graduates the name of _Edgar
Roberts_, from Ohio, or she might have had an idea into whose hands her
bouquet had fallen. Her brother Edward, immediately on hearing Annie's
exclamation, thought how the mistake had occurred, and was really glad
that it was as it was; for the young man whose name was so nearly like
his own was a stranger in the city, and Edward had noticed his
receiving _one_ bouquet only, which of course was the missing one, and
Annie's.
Edgar Roberts sat in his room that night, after his return from the
distribution of diplomas, holding in his hand Annie's bouquet, and on
the table beside him was a floral dictionary. An expression of
gratification was on his pleasant face, and, as again and again his
eyes turned from the flowers to seek their interpreter, his lips were
wreathed with smiles, and he murmured low:
"Annie Grey! Sweet Annie Grey! I never dreamed of any one in this
place knowing or caring enough for me to send such a tribute. How
carefully these flowers are chosen! What a charming, appreciative
little girl she is! Pretty, I know, of course. I wonder how she came
to send me this? How shall I find her? Find her I must, and know her."
And Edgar Roberts fell asleep to dream of Annie Grey, and awoke in the
morning whispering the last words of the night before:
"Sweet Annie Grey!"
During the day he found it quite impossible to fix his mind on his
work; mind and heart were both occupied with thoughts of Annie Grey.
And so it continued to be until Edgar Roberts was really in love with a
girl he knew not, nor had ever seen. To find her was his fixed
determination. But how delicately he must go about it. He could not
make inquiry among his gentlemen acquaintances without speculations
arising, and a name sacred to him then, passed from one to another,
lightly spoken, perhaps. Then he bethought himself of the city
directory; he would consult that. And so doing he found Greys
innumerable--some in elegant, spacious dwellings, some in the business
thoroughfares of the place. The young ladies of the first mentioned,
he thought, living in fashionable life, surrounded by many admirers,
would scarcely think of bestowing any token of regard or appreciation
on a poor unknown student. The next would have but little time to
devote to such things; and time and thought were both spent in the
arrangement of his bouquet. Among the long list of Greys he found one
that attracted him more than all the others--a widow, living in a quiet
part of the city, quite near his daily route. So he sought and found
the place and exact number. Fortune favored him. Standing at the door
of a neat little frame cottage he beheld a young girl talking with two
little children. She was not the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of his
dreams, but a sweet, earnest dove-eyed darling. And what care he,
whether her eyes were blue or brown, if her name were only Annie? Oh,
how could he find out that?
She was bidding the little ones "good-bye." They were off from her, on
the sidewalk, when the elder child--a bright, laughing boy of
five--sang out, kissing his little dimpled hand:
"Good-bye, Annie, darling!"
Edgar Roberts felt as if he would like to clasp the little fellow to
the heart he had relieved of all anxiety. No longer a doubt was in his
mind. He had found his Annie Grey.
From that afternoon, twice every day he passed the cottage of the widow
Grey, frequently seeing sweet Annie. This, however, was his only
reward. She never seemed at all conscious of his presence. Often her
eyes would glance carelessly toward him. Oftener they were never
raised from her work. Sewing by the window, she always was.
What next? How to proceed, on his fixed determination of winning her,
if possible?
Another bright thought. He felt pretty sure she attended church
somewhere; perhaps had a class in the Sabbath school. So the next
Sunday morning, at an early hour, he was commanding a view of Annie's
home. When the school bells commenced to ring, he grew very anxious.
A few moments, and the door opened and the object of his thoughts
stepped forth. How beautiful she looked in her pretty white suit! Now
Edgar felt his cause was in the ascendancy. Some distance behind, and
on the other side of the street, he followed, ever keeping her in view
until he saw her enter a not far distant church. Every Sunday after
found him an attentive listener to the Rev. Mr. Ashton, who soon became
aware of the presence of the young gentleman so regularly, and
apparently so much interested in the services. So the good man sought
an opportunity to speak to Edgar, and urge his accepting a charge in
the Sabbath school. We can imagine Edgar needed no great urging on
that subject; so, frequently, he stood near his Annie. In the library,
while selecting books for their pupils, once or twice they had met, and
he had handed to her the volume for which her hand was raised. Of
course a smile and bow of acknowledgment and thanks rewarded him.
Edgar was growing happier, and more confident of final success every
week, when an event came which promised a speedy removal of all
difficulty in his path. The school was going to have a picnic. Then
and there he would certainly have an introduction to Annie, and after
spending a whole day with her, he would accompany her home and win the
privilege of calling often.
The day of the picnic dawned brightly, and the happy party gathered on
the deck of the steamer. The first person who met Edgar Roberts' eye
was his fellow-student, Edward Roberts. Standing beside him were two
ladies and some children. When Edgar hastened up to speak to his
friend, the ladies turned, and Edward presented:
"My wife; my sister, Miss Grey."
Edgar Roberts could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy and
surprise. His looks fully expressed how delighted he was.
Three months had he been striving for this, which, if he had only known
it, could have been obtained so easily through his friend and her
brother. But what was so difficult to win was the more highly prized.
What a happy day it was!
Annie was all he had believed her--charming in every way. Edgar made a
confidant of his friend; told him what Edward well knew before, but was
wise enough not to explain the mistake--of his hopes and fears; and won
from the prudent brother the promise to help him all he could.
Accompanying Annie home that evening, and gaining her permission for
him to call again, Edgar lost no time in doing so, and often repeated
the call.
Perhaps Annie thought him very fast in his wooing, and precipitate in
declaring his love, when, after only a fortnight visiting her, he said:
"Annie, do you like me well enough, and trust in me sufficiently, to
allow me to ask your mother to call me her son?"
Either so happy or so surprised was Annie, that she could not speak
just then. But roses crowded over her fair face, and she did not try
to withdraw the hand he had clasped.
"Say, Annie, love," he whispered. She raised her eyes to his with such
a strange, surprised look in them, that he laughed and said:
"You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don't know how long I've loved
you, and have waited for this hour."
"Long!--two weeks," she said.
"Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I've been able to
think of anything save Annie Grey--ever since the night I received my
diploma, and your sweet, encouraging bouquet, since that night I've
known and loved you. And how I've worked for this hour!"
And then he told her how it was. And when he had finished, she looked
at him, her eyes dancing merrily, and though she tried hard to keep the
little rosebud of a mouth demurely shut, it was no use--it would open
and let escape a rippling laugh, as she said:
"And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? This is the good
it has done me--" She hesitated; the roses deepened their color as she
continued: "And you--"
"Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope to you too."
"But, Edgar--" it was the first time she had called him thus, and how
happy it made him--"I must tell you the truth--I never sent you a
bouquet!"
"No! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such Annie Grey?"
"No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, you received it
through a mistake. It was intended for my brother-in-law, Edward!"
"Stop, Annie, a moment-- Are you sorry that mistake was made? Do you
regret it?" said Edgar, his voice filled with emotion.
"No indeed, I am very glad you received it instead," Annie ingenuously
replied; adding quickly, "But, please, do not tell Edward I said so."
"No, no; I will not tell him that you care a little more for _Edgar_
than _Edward_. Is that it? May I think so, Annie?"
She nodded her head, and he caught her to his heart, whispering:
"Mine at last. My Annie, darling! What a blessed mistake it was! May
I go to your mother, Annie?"
"Yes; and I'll go with you, Edgar, and hear if she will admit those
flowers did any good. She thought it a useless expenditure."
The widow Grey had become very much attached to the kind, attentive
young man, and when he came with Annie, and asked her blessing on their
love, she gave it willingly; and after hearing all about the way it
happened, she said:
"Never did flowers such a good work before. They carried Edgar to
church, made a Christian of him, and won for Annie a good, devoted
husband, and for me an affectionate son."
THE END.
FAMOUS BOOKS IN REBOUND EDITIONS
HEIDI
A Child's Story of Life in the Alps
By Johanna Spyri
PINOCCHIO
A Tale of a Puppet--By C. Collodi
ELSIE DINSMORE
By Martha Finley
BROWNIES AND OTHER STORIES
Illustrated by Palmer Cox
HELEN'S BABIES
By John Habberton
HANS BRINKER; or, The Silver Skates
By Mary Mapes Dodge
RAINY DAY DIVERSIONS
By Carolyn Wells
PLEASANT DAY DIVERSIONS
By Carolyn Wells
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