And Phyllis, she who had called me "Jack," she whom I had watched grow
from girlhood to womanhood, she, too, had forsaken me. I do not know
what would have become of me but for Pembroke's cheerfulness.
Monday night I was sitting before the grate, reading for the hundredth
time Gretchen's only letter. Pembroke was buried behind the covers of
a magazine. Suddenly a yellow flame leaped from a pine log, and in it
I seemed to read all. Gretchen was proud and jealous. She believed
that I loved Phyllis and had made her a Princess because I loved her.
It was the first time I had laughed in many an hour. Pembroke looked
over his magazine.
"That sounds good. What caused it?"
"A story," I answered. "Some day I shall tell you all about it. Have
you noticed how badly I have gone about lately?"
"Have I!" he echoed. "If I haven't had a time of it, I should like to
know!"
"Well, it is all over," said I, placing a hand on his shoulder and
smiling into his questioning eyes. "Now if you will excuse me, cousin
mine, I'll make a call on her Serene Highness the Princess Hildegarde.
Pages:
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301