When they had reached the
silence of the hall, he took her hands in his, and looked into
her eyes. "Now," he commanded, "you shall come to my sisters!"
The waiting car carried them swiftly up the avenue. Their way
lay through the park, and the warm, mid-summer air was heavy
with the odor of plants and shrubs. Above them the trees drooped
deep with leaves. Vera, crouched in a corner, had not spoken.
Her eyes were hidden in her hands. But when they had entered the
silent reaches of the park she lowered them and the face she
lifted to Winthrop was pale and wet with tears. The man thought
never before had he seen it more lovely or more lovable. Vera
shook her head dumbly and looked up at him with a troubled
smile.
"I told you," she murmured remorsefully, "you'd be sorry."
We don't know that yet," said Winthrop gently, "we'll have all
the rest of our lives to find that out."
Startled, the girl drew back. In her face was wonder, amazement,
a dawning happiness.
Without speaking, Winthrop looked at her, entreatingly,
pitifully, beseeching her with his eyes.
Slowly the girl bent forward and, as he threw out his arms, with
a little sigh of rest and content she crept into them and
pressed her face to his.
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Vera the Medium by Richard Harding Davis
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