One night they were all invited to attend a reception given at the house of a friend. He was with Dora and John. Dora addressed a remark to John, and receiving no answer, turned to look in his face for the reason. His gaze was fixed upon Sappho, who was surrounded by every eligible man in the house. And such a look! love—hatred—tenderness—the gamut of passion was disclosed by the look bent upon the unconscious girl before them. Dora shuddered as if a chill had struck her, and turning to Lewis held a cold and trembling little hand appealingly toward him. He took it gladly into his firm and loving clasp, and tenderly asked her if she would like to go home. She grasped the offer instantly with evident relief. She left John’s side to seek the ladies’ dressing-room for her wraps; he, absorbed in thoughts of Sappho, did not miss her presence. Lewis sent word to Will that he was taking Dora home because she was feeling very tired. He apologized to the hostess, engineered all the delicate details of social life with neatness and dispatch, and met the harassed girl at the foot of the staircase, ready to lead her home without arousing disagreeable comment.
“What does the beggar mean?” he asked himself more than once that night. “He does not seem inclined to give Dora up, and yet he is completely ‘gone’ over the other one.” But, like a prudent man, he said nothing; he kept his own counsel and watched.
Since the meeting at which Sappho had fainted, the girl had grown more silent and depressed. People said: “Yes, she is beautiful, but so cold and silent.”
She and Will had scarcely spoken since the night of the fair, but each felt and knew that it would be but a short time before the story of their love must be settled for good and all. So the days crept by and brought the crisis of these lives, so strangely interwoven.
Easter Sunday fell early in April that year. The city had donned its gayest attire to welcome the return of the celebration of Christ’s triumphal resurrection. The morning service was ended. The exultant organ peals, the glorious strains of hymns of victory poured forth by highly trained voices in hundreds of augmented church choirs all over the city, still seemed to vibrate upon the listening air even after the churches had given up their crowds of worshippers. Sappho had been to the mission church of St. Augustine, on Phillips Street, at the West End. Here the good Fathers of the Mission of St. John had reared a church, and elected to bend their efforts particularly to the salvation and upraising of the poorest of God’s children. This church, with its beautiful silver chimes, given by a wealthy Boston woman in commemoration of the life and services of the lamented Bishop Brooks, is destined to stand for ages as a memorial of the deeds of philanthropy which have always been a distinguishing feature of the true spirit of Massachusetts.
The sound of the bells lingered with her like a benediction. For the first time in weeks a tranquil mind was hers. The spirit of the day was upon her in full measure; to her the risen Christ was a reality, and his triumph over sin and death was to her bruised spirit a promise and a blessing. Stepping lightly along she gained the Public Garden and crossed the rustic bridge, skirting the lake as she walked toward the Arlington Street entrance. Many admiring glances followed the graceful figure, clad in its fresh, jaunty, tailor-made suit of gray. The strong wind kissed the pure face and gently lifted the clustering curls from the white brow, where Cupid lurked in every curve and delicate thread of gold. The Garden was very beautiful this year; it had blossomed with more than its usual luxuriance for the annual festival. Beds of crocuses, gaudy tulips and hyacinths dotted the landscape side by side with the modest violet and exquisite pansy. God’s smile was everywhere. April’s sun and showers had blessed the earth, and
“Cold Nature, by his amorous kiss
Stung sweetly, stirred his limbs and felt
A thrill of immemorial bliss.”
Someone sat upon a garden seat awaiting her coming. Far down the mall he espied the solitary figure. ’Twas she herself! As he gazed upon the advancing figure of the girl he loved he felt his heart swell within him, and tender thrills of joy filled his soul, too full for utterance. He noticed that she wore a bunch of violets today, instead of her favorite Jacks. They were more in keeping with the sentiment of the day. There they rested in a splendid cluster upon her breast—modest and beautifully fragrant. “As sweet as a violet herself,” he thought, as he murmured to himself:
“The breeze runs riot with thy charms,
O faint, delicious, springtime violet!”
As a man Will Smith was not ashamed of the passion which consumed him. An honorable love has its own subtle charm. Now was his opportunity! The almost deserted paths were secure from intrusion. She was not indifferent to him; today should end suspense. He would have her answer.
Sappho caught sight of him directly she entered the path. She hesitated—turned—then stood still, as if conscious of his resolution. He saw her hesitation, and read her thoughts by virtue of that harmony which is love’s perfection. He arose and stood before her, hat in hand. His apparent coolness and self-possession did what he intended it should: restored her calmness; and when she placed her hand in his and responded to his cheery greeting, she was herself again.
“Do not hurry away,” he said, as she turned as if to resume her
