With a deep pity in his soul he departed on his errand.
Returning with the soft tread which was his peculiarity, he surprised
her with her face in her hands in an attitude of such abandonment that
he drew back hesitating. But, suddenly aware of him, she sprang up
swiftly, with no sign of tears upon her face.
"Oh, come in, come in!" she said impatiently. "Why do you stand
there?"
She ran forward to meet him with hands hungrily outstretched, and
he put into them those trifles which were to her so infinitely
precious--a cigarette-case, a silver match-box, a pen-knife, a little
old prayer-book very worn at the edges, with all the gilt faded from
its leaves. She gathered them to her breast closely, passionately.
All but the prayer-book had been her gifts to the father she had
worshipped. With a wrung heart she called to mind the occasion upon
which each had been offered, his smile of kindly appreciation, the
old-world courtliness of his thanks. With loving hands she laid them
down one by one, lingering over each, seeing them through a blur of
tears. She was no longer conscious of Grange, as reverently, even
diffidently, she opened last of all the little shabby prayer-book that
her father had been wont to take with him on all his marches. She knew
that he had cherished it as her mother's gift.
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