That this was a profound and original discovery there could be no doubt, from the conviction with which it was announced.  “I felt from the first that I could trust you.”

“I wish”—­and there was genuine feeling in the tone—­“I were worthier of such a generous trust.”

There was a wistful look in her face—­timidity, self-depreciation, worship—­as Henderson rose and stood near her, and she looked up while he took the broken flower from her hand.  There was but one answer to this, and in spite of the open piazza and the all-observant, all-revealing day, it might have been given; but at the moment Miss Forsythe was seen hurrying towards them through the shrubbery.  She came straight to where they stood, with an air of New England directness and determination.  One hand she gave to Henderson, the other to Margaret.  She essayed to speak, but tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled; the words would not come.  She regarded them for an instant with all the overflowing affection of a quarter of a century of repression, and then quickly turned and went in.  In a moment they followed her.  Heaven go with them!

After Henderson had made his hasty adieus at our house and gone, before the sun was down, Margaret came over.  She came swiftly into the room, gave me a kiss as I rose to greet her, with a delightful impersonality, as if she owed a debt somewhere and must pay it at once—­we men who are so much left out of these affairs have occasionally to thank Heaven for a merciful moment—­seized my wife, and dragged her to her room.

“I couldn’t wait another moment,” she said, as she threw herself on my wife’s bosom in a passion of tears.  “I am so happy! he is so noble, and I love him so!” And she sobbed as if it were the greatest calamity in the world.  And then, after a little, in reply to a question—­for women are never more practical than in such a crisis:  “Oh, no—­not for a long, long, long time.  Not before autumn.”

And the girl looked, through her glad tears, as if she expected to be admired for this heroism.  And I have no doubt she was.

XII

Well, that was another success.  The world is round, and like a ball seems swinging in the air, and swinging very pleasantly, thought Henderson, as he stepped on board the train that evening.  The world is truly what you make it, and Henderson was determined to make it agreeable.  His philosophy was concise, and might be hung up, as a motto:  Get all you can, and don’t fret about what you cannot get.

He went into the smoking compartment, and sat musing by the window for some time before he lit his cigar, feeling a glow of happiness that was new in his experience.  The country was charming at twilight, but he was little conscious of that.  What he saw distinctly was Margaret’s face, trustful and wistful, looking up into his as she bade him goodby.  What he was vividly conscious of was being followed, enveloped, by a woman’s love.