"I thought of the dress that she wore last time
When we stood 'neath the cypress-tree together
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather.
"Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot)
And her warm white neck in its golden chain,
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again.
"I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring.
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing."
The girl dabbed up her hand under pretense of fixing a lock of hair; she
scrubbed away tears that were trickling. So this was it! The powwow over
business and politics had not been stirring even languid interest in her.
Now her emotions were rioting. Here seemed to be something worth while in
the life of the master!
"But I will marry my own first love
With her primrose face; for old things are best.
And the flower in her bosom I prize it above--
"My God!" Mac Tavish gasped. "Next he'll be playing jiggle-ma-ree wi'
dollies on his desk! His wits hae gane agley!"
In the horror of his discovery he flung his arms and knocked off the desk
his full stock of paperweight ammunition.
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