Arch’s good fortune did not change him a particle.  He gave less time to business, it is true, but he spent it in hard study.  His early education had been defective, and he was doing his best to remedy the lack.

Early in the autumn following the death of his grandfather, he went to Europe, and after the lapse of a year, returned again to New York.  The second day after his arrival, he went out to Harrison Park.  Margie had passed the summer there, with an old friend of her mother for company, he was told, and would not come back to the city before December.

It was a cold, stormy night in September, when he knocked at the door of Miss Harrison’s residence; but a cheery light shone from the window, and streamed out of the door which the servant held open.

He inquired for Miss Harrison, and was shown at once into her presence.  She sat in a low chair, her dress of sombre black relieved by a white ribbon at the throat, and by the chestnut light of the shining hair that swept in unbound luxuriance over her shoulders.  She rose to meet her guest, scarcely recognizing Archer Trevlyn in the bronzed, bearded man before her.

“Miss Harrison,” he said, gently, “it is a cold night; will you not give a warm welcome to an old friend?”

She knew his voice instantly.  A bright color leaped to her cheek, an embarrassment which made her a thousand times dearer and more charming to Arch Trevlyn, possessed her.  But she held out her hands, and said a few shy words of welcome.

Arch sat down beside her, and the conversation drifted into recollections of their own individual history.  They spoke to each other with the freedom of very old friends, forgetful of the fact that this was almost the very first conversation they had ever had together.

After a while, Arch said: 

“Miss Harrison, do you remember when you first saw me?”

She looked at him a moment, and hesitated before she answered.

“I may be mistaken, Mr. Trevlyn.  If so, excuse me; but I think I saw you first, years and years ago, in a flower store.”

“You are correct; and on that occasion your generous kindness made me very happy.  I thought it would make my mother happy, also.  I ran all the way home, lest the roses might wilt before she saw them.”

He stopped and gazed into the fire.

“Was she pleased with them?”

“She was dead.  We put them in her coffin.  They were buried with her.”

Margie laid her hand lightly on his.

“I am so sorry for you!  I, too, have buried my mother.”

After a little silence, Arch went on.

“The next time you saw me was when you gave me these.”  He took out his pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cluster of faded bluebells.  “Do you remember them?”

“I think I do.  You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?”

“Yes.  And the next time?  Do you remember the next time?”