"Because you have so much common sense."

Florence smiled. "I never showed it until I began to love you," she replied; "but what time do you suppose it is? Just think of poor papa waiting all this time."

"Only to find he has lost his best possession," answered Harold.

Judge Moreland was sitting in the library when they reached the house, and although he had been waiting patiently for nearly an hour since the servant had announced luncheon, he did not seem ill-humored, for, on seeing the delinquents enter, he smiled good-humoredly, and shook his head with mock disapproval, as he said: "Three-quarters of an hour late, children. That is more than I bargained for, but you will be punished.

The luncheon is cold and you will be compelled to eat it without grumbling."

Harold took Florence's hand and they both stood before the Judge; then Harold said penitently: "The fault is mine, sir, but I have a greater sin to answer for. I have robbed you of your daughter, and I come to ask your clemency."

"I think I understand," answered the Judge. "Yours is a very grave offense, and the only way you can obtain pardon is by seeking benefit of clergy. Florence, my girl, come here and let me kiss you. You have made me very happy."

"Happy," echoed Florence, "I feared you would never forgive me."

"Not forgive you for loving the son of Judge Wainwright? He was my best friend and his son will make my daughter the best husband in the world.

Give me your hand, Harold," he continued, after he had kissed Florence affectionately, "you are your father's own boy."

"That is the best compliment you could pay me," answered Harold.

"I know it is, and you know I mean it when I say I expect to see you on the federal bench yourself some day."

"Luncheon is getting cold, sir," said the old family butler, coming into the room and looking far from amiable.

"Let it wait, Thomas," said the Judge, "until you can get a bottle of champagne up from the cellar. We have some healths to drink to-day, haven't we, children?"

That evening the little church was lighted up for evening service, and again the rustling of fans ceased, and heads were turned around as Florence and Harold took their seats. But Harold's eyes were no longer directed toward the pew in front of him, and the doctor's daughter remarked that the two people in front of her stood unnecessarily close to each other during the hymns, while the postmaster's wife made up her mind that people who "smirk and look so silly durin' meetin' must be sparkin'." In fact the homely folk of Fairville were not slow of perception; many were the gossiping heads put together that night, and it was a curious coincidence that there was no dissenting voice in regard to the probability of a certain event having taken place that afternoon.

Going home that night, Florence and Harold walked with the tarrying step of lovers, but the Judge was not waiting luncheon, and, as the evening was warm and bright, they rested again under the willows, watching the moonlight play on the ripples of the lake. They were planning for the future, and many were the rosy tinted castles reared in that soft night air under the shade of the trees they loved so well. The moon shone kindly over the mountain top at the farther end of the lake, and the waves plashed softly on the pebbles at their feet, as Florence sat there with her head resting on Harold's shoulder, dreaming the sweetest dream of life.

CHAPTER XII.

UNREST.

The sun was streaming through the Sanderson's library window, and the curtains were fluttering in the soft lake breeze which blew through the open cas.e.m.e.nt. Across the driveway a policeman was chatting with a trim nursery maid, and two or three loungers were leaning over the sea wall, watching the blue water splash lazily against the grey stones. The white sails of the lake craft in the offing glistened in the sunshine, and the smoke from the steamers settled along the horizon in long black streaks, while the pa.s.sing of an occasional vehicle along the driveway produced a little cloud of dust, which for a moment obscured the view, and then was carried away by the summer breeze and scattered along the roadway. The atmosphere had the hazy hue peculiar to one of those first warm days of early summer, when the air seems charged with la.s.situde, and one is overpowered with a depressing sense of _ennui_, which precludes the possibility of any sort of action.

Marion Sanderson and Florence Moreland were there in the library, trying to keep cool and talking over the events of the past six months. Marion was stretched on a lounge with an Eau-de-Cologne bandage bound about her forehead to relieve the _migraine_ from which she was suffering, and Florence sat beside her, plying a palm-leaf fan and trying to amuse her friend by accounts of the small doings of her life in New Hampshire.

"So you think I must have had a stupid winter," said Florence, in answer to Marion's last remark.

"I am sure of it. You had much better have remained here with me."

"You are very inconsistent," laughed Florence. "Last minute you said Chicago was the dullest place you knew anything about."

"I meant dull in comparison with London or New York. It is certainly better than a place where life is made up of prayer meetings and snow banks."

"I am glad you are beginning to appreciate the advantages of your home,"

said Florence.

"Don't chaff me, Florence. I can't bear it. I am too nervous. I wish you had this headache for five minutes and perhaps you would feel sorrier for me."

"Why, my dear, I do feel sorry for you; isn't there anything I can do?"

"No; Dr. Maccanfrae is coming this morning and I suppose he will give me a lot of stuff, but it won't do me any good. I have taken every known medicine this winter, and I have had this headache every day for months.

I can't eat anything. I can't sleep, and I am tired and bored all the time. The Doctor calls it neurasthenia, but I don't know what good it does to put such a big name to it, when he can't do me any good."

"There must be something that will help you," said Florence.

"Of course there is. If I could go somewhere else to live I know I should feel better. What I need is some new distraction, but how can I have that in this stupid town?" Then she was silent for awhile and during that time she thought of the few days last winter when a new element had come into her life only to vanish as quickly again. She thought of a ball-room, an exciting dance, and the magnetic impulse of a moment which had made life seem so sweet. Why had she resisted that temptation, she asked herself. The other course could not have made her more unhappy, and it, at least, was no more a mockery than her present life, with that love still burning fiercely to the wild accompaniment of Tzigan strains, echoing in her heart. "What is the use of being good?"

she asked herself. Then she smiled a mocking answer, turned over on the lounge and buried her face in the cushions.

Florence watched Marion anxiously for a moment. She was extremely worried about the state of nervous depression in which she had found her friend on returning to Chicago, and she was trying to think of some way in which she could help her. She leaned over her and slowly stroked her rich black hair. Marion looked up and smiled faintly. Then she seized Florence's hand and began to sob nervously. "You love me, don't you Florence; you love me, don't you?" she said between the sobs.

"You don't need to ask that, Marion."

"I know it," she replied; "I think you are the only person in the world who understands me, the only person who loves me."

"You are wrong in that, my dear, I am sure."

"No, I am not," she moaned. "I want love, I must have love. O, I can't live without it!"

Florence stroked Marion's head again, and tried to soothe her hysterical sobbing. "Dear," she said softly, "there is one man who would die for you if it would bring you happiness. I am sure of it."

Marion turned her head away and did not reply. Florence felt pity for her friend's unhappy state of mind, which she considered was, in a great measure, self-produced, but she knew it was useless to talk to Marion about her husband, as she was a woman who could not be influenced by persuasive words. Florence wanted to help her friend to understand the danger she was in, but she could not see a way which promised success; so, thinking that the best course was to divert her mind from herself, she took Marion's hand and said cheerfully, "I have a secret to tell you, dear, but you must sit up and look pleased."

"I hope it is interesting," said Marion somewhat mournfully. "I haven't heard a secret for months."

"Guess what it is."

"Is it an engagement?"

"Yes."

"Whose?"

"Guess."

"I can't. You must tell me immediately. I am dying to know," answered Marion, brightening considerably.

"It is mine."

"You horrid creature," said Marion, sitting up and hurling one of the sofa cushions at Florence.

"That is a novel way to treat a friend at such a time," Florence said as she dodged the pillow.