He did not know why he went--he
had to go. When he reached the Dunbar woods, he stood in
the thicket for hours, watching the house. She came out
at last and sat down on the steps to play with the dog.
Last night in her white, delicate beauty she had not
seemed real--she was far off, like an angel coming down
into his depths of misery.
But to-day she sat on the steps in her pretty blue gown,
and laughed and rolled Tramp over, and sung snatches of
songs, and was nothing but a foolish girl. For so many
years he had been thinking of work and money-making and
bosses. All of that mean drudgery fell out of sight now.
He was a man, young, alone, on fire with hope and
passion. His share of life had been mean and pinched;
yonder was youth and gladness and tranquillity. The
world was empty, save for themselves. He was here, and
there was the one woman in it--the one woman.
He looked at his tanned, rough fingers. Last night she
had folded them in her two soft little hands, and drawn
him on--on into home!
He would go up to her now and tell her----
George pushed aside the bushes, but at that moment Lucy
rose and went into the house. After a moment he crossed
the lawn and sat down on the piazza, calling the dog to
him. She would come back soon. Tramp's head rested on
his knee as he stroked it. It was here her hand had
touched it--and here----
The scent of roses was heavy in the sunshine, the bees
hummed; he sat there in a hazy dream, waiting for
the door to open and the joy of his life to begin.
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