No
day dawned so dark that was not illumined for him by the repetition of
that shamelessly unmaidenly speech, "I love you, Dick." As for her,
she never ceased to smile at the blindness of a man who could imagine
that luxurious imprisonment for life without him could be more
alluring than the greatest hardships endured in the perpetual sunshine
of his love.
Of this pair, whose romance had outlasted the sordid cares and
trials of life in the backwoods, Allan Dunlop, with his exquisite
susceptibilities, and ambitious aims, was the honest fruit. He was not
visible to Rose for some days after their emotional and wholly
involuntary encounter in his mother's room, and then he brought her a
great handful of her fragrant namesakes. She had been promoted for
half-an-hour to a huge well-cushioned chair, in which she reclined
rather languidly. The roses formed a pretext for a little desultory
conversation, and then Allan, noticing the invalid's little ears were
turning pink, presumably at the recollection of their last meeting,
could not forbear saying:
"I feel that I ought to beg your pardon, Miss Macleod, for the way I
treated you the other evening.
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