Another glance at her encouraged him. She expected nothing
--not a word; she took all for granted. She was lost in dreams of her
soul.
He looked down again to see her hand--small, shapely, strong and
brown; and upon the third finger he espied his ring. He had
forgotten to look to see if she wore it. Then softly he touched it
and drew her hand in his.
"My ring. Oh, Allie!" he whispered.
The response was a wonderful purple blaze of her eyes. He divined
then that his ring had been the tangible thing upon which she had
reconstructed her broken life.
"You rode away--so quickly--I had no chance to--tell," she replied,
haltingly and low-voiced. All was sweet shame about her now, and he
had to fight himself to keep from gathering her to his breast.
Verily this meeting between Allie and him was not what he had
anticipated.
He kissed her hand.
"You've all the fall and all the winter to tell me such sweet
things," he said. "Perhaps to-morrow I'll find my tongue and tell
you something."
"Tell me now," she said, quickly.
"Well, you're beautiful," he replied, with strong feeling.
"Really?" she smiled, and that smile was the first he had ever seen
upon her face. It brought out the sadness, the very soul of her
great beauty. "I used to be pretty," she went on, naively.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115