“Miss Mary,” said an attendant, “can you come down a moment?”
She guessed without a word when she saw a young man standing there with a basket of wild roses. But he could not believe the dread fiat at first. She had been “a little ill,” and “wasn’t strong” were the tidings that had startled him, and she had gone to a home for the “Little Mothers” to recruit. He had heard some other incidents of her sad story, and he remembered the children’s pathetic clinging to the wild roses. Nothing could give her greater pleasure.
He walked reverently up the wide, uncarpeted steps, beside Miss Mary. Dil was still asleep, or—O Heaven! was she dead? Miss Mary bent over, touched her cool cheek.
“I’ve been asleep. It was so lovely. I’m all rested like—why, I’m most well.”
Oh, the glow in her eyes, the eager, asking expression of every feature. She gave a soft, exultant cry as John Travis emerged from Miss Mary’s shadow, and stretched out her hands.
All the room was full of the faint, delicious fragrance of wild roses, kept so moist and sheltered they were hardly conscious of their journey. And she lay trembling in two strong arms, so instinct with vitality, that she seemed to take from them a sudden buoyant strength.
“I’ve been waitin’ for you so long,” she exclaimed when she found breath to speak. There was no reproach in the tone, rather a heavenly satisfaction that he had come now. Her trust had been crowned with fruition, that was enough.
“My little girl!” Oh, surely it could not be as bad as they said. The future that he had planned for, that he had meant to make pleasant and satisfying, and perhaps beautiful, from the fervent gratitude of a manly heart. Was she beyond anything he could do for her? Oh, he would not believe it!
“I was detained so much longer abroad than I expected,” he began. “And we did not get in until Monday morning. I went to Barker’s Court, and could not learn where you were. Then I bethought myself of the cop at the square,” smiling as he designated the man.
“He gave me the letter. I hunted up the boys. I saw Patsey and Owen last night, and they are counting on your getting well. They sent you so much love. And to-day I went to Chester. Here are your roses.”
He tumbled them out all dewy from the wet papers. Oh, such sweetness! Dil breathed it in ecstatic delight. She had no words. She looked her unutterable joy out of her limpid brown eyes, and he had much ado to keep the tears from his. So pale, so spiritualized, yet so little like Bess, and—oh, the last hope died as he took in all the signs. For surely, surely she was on the road to heaven and Bess. No hand of love, no touch of prosperity, could hold her back.