Dorothy knew before many minutes that I had not come especially to see her.  She had heard of Douglas’ arrival, of Douglas’ mission.  Between her mother’s recapitulation of our talk and my own additions in her presence, she learned of the events of my life that she did not already know.  I could see that she was very happy.  And for myself it was an easy reunion.

She too wished to see Douglas and be present at the “Hermitage.”  Why not?  She and her mother could easily presume upon the General’s hospitality.  Still, would I not be kind enough to arrange it?  I stayed to the noonday meal with Dorothy and her mother.  Then I went to the hotel to tell Douglas that I would come to the “Hermitage” with them.  I did not find him at first.  He had gone to pay a call upon Mr. Polk, who had been nominated for the Presidency as a young hickory to Jackson’s “Old Hickory.”  He returned soon and was glad to have Mrs. Clayton and Dorothy come to the “Hermitage.”  Then I went back to spend the intervening time with Dorothy.  She was truly lovely to me now.  Her hair was more glistening and more golden; her eyes more elfin; the arch of her nose more patrician.  She was gentle and tender.  It seemed that all misunderstandings between us had dissolved.  We did not mention any of the disagreeable things of the past.  We communicated with each other against a background of Zoe being dead, of my being gone from the farm.  Chicago, its growth, its color, its picturesque location by the great lake, made her eyes dance.  She could not hear enough of it.  She had outgrown the Cumberland hills.  Her life was monotonous here.  As I talked to Dorothy I had a clearer vision of Abigail.  I felt sure now that Abigail had no magnetism for me.  At the same time I began to recall what I had thought of Dorothy:  her southern ways, her aristocratic ideas, her leisurely life, her cultural environment making for the lady, for the Walter Scott romanticism.  Chicago had blown the mists from my eyes.  I had lived under a clear sky, breathed rough and invigorating breezes.  Yet I was drawn to Dorothy.  My mind was poised in a delicate balance.  And as I had impulsively given Zoe half the farm, I now suddenly proposed to Dorothy while turning from Dorothy to Abigail and from Abigail to Dorothy.

The afternoon was warm.  The soft breeze was stirring the great trees, the flowering bushes on the lawn.  A distant bird was calling.  The Cumberland hills were dreaming beyond the river.  And Dorothy suddenly looked at me with eyes in which supernatural lights were burning brightly.  It was the look which in a woman comprehends and accepts the man who is before her; it was the secret and sacred fire of nature illuminating her vision and asking my vision to join hers in an intuition of a mating.  With that look I asked Dorothy to be my wife.