It was Mary St. John. Their hands met, joined fast, and lingered, as
they gazed each in the other's face. It was nearly fourteen years
since they had parted. The freshness of youth was gone from her
cheek, and the signs of middle age were present on her forehead.
But she was statelier, nobler, and gentler than ever. Falconer
looked at her calmly, with only a still swelling at the heart, as if
they met on the threshold of heaven. All the selfishness of passion
was gone, and the old earlier adoration, elevated and glorified, had
returned. He was a boy once more in the presence of a woman-angel.
She did not shrink from his gaze, she did not withdraw her hand
from his clasp.
'I am so glad, Robert!' was all she said.
'So am I,' he answered quietly. 'We may meet sometimes then?'
'Yes. Perhaps we can help each other.'
'You can help me,' said Falconer. 'I have a girl I don't know what
to do with.'
'Send her to me. I will take care of her.'
'I will bring her. But I must come and see you first.'
'That will tell you where I live,' she said, giving him a card.
Good-bye.'
'Till to-morrow,' said Falconer.
'She's not like that Bible fellow,' said De Fleuri, as he entered
his room again. 'She don't walk into your house as if it was her
own.'
He was leaning against his idle loom, which, like a dead thing,
filled the place with the mournfulness of death. Falconer took a
broken chair, the only one, and sat down.
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