One afternoon I returned late. I had gone out into the fields in
search of a handful of Mayflowers. I thought they might bring a smile
to my darling's lips, and for hours I had wandered about the open
country searching amid the tender early blades for violets--white or
blue.
I was coming back as, the sun began to set, feeling tired and
low-spirited. I had found but a few little flowers, for the season was
late, and I was eager to reach my destination with them while the
freshness of their beauty glowed on their tiny leaves. When I stole to
her room, however, the door was partly closed, and Bayard was walking
slowly up and down the corridor outside.
"You cannot go in now," he said in a whisper, laying one hand tenderly
upon my shoulder, "Father Douglas is with her. Go and wait in the
little front room," he added "I will call you when she is alone
again."
I turned softly around, and crept on tip-toe to the sitting-room, at
the end of the passage; the door was partly open, and I glided in
noiselessly. In an easy chair, by the open window, with his back
towards me, sat Ernest Dalton, alone.
He did not hear me, and I stood with my hand upon the casement,
wondering what I had better do: it was only for a moment, however. He
was not the same man to me now, with whom I had parted so strangely,
after my father's death; he was neither Hortense's lover nor mine, but
a good friend to us both; he was my guardian, and the only father I
had left.
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