And now--"
There was something almost fine in the lines of T. A. Buck's too
feminine mouth and chin; but not fine enough.
"Now, Emma," he repeated, "will you marry me?"
Emma McChesney's eyes were a wonderful thing to see, so full of pain
were they, so wide with unshed tears.
"As long as--he--lived," she went on, "the thought of marriage was
repulsive to me. Then, that day seven months ago out in Iowa, when I
picked up that paper and saw it staring out at me in print that seemed
to waver and dance"--she covered her eyes with her hand for a moment--
"'McChesney--Stuart McChesney, March 7, aged forty-seven years.
Funeral to-day from Howland Brothers' chapel. Aberdeen and Edinburgh
papers please copy!'"
[Illustration: "'Emma.' he said, 'will you marry me?'"]
T. A. Buck took the hand that covered her eyes and brought it gently
down.
"Emma," he said, "will you marry me?"
"T. A., I don't love you. Wait! Don't say it! I'm thirty-nine, but I'm
brave and foolish enough to say that all these years of work, and
disappointment, and struggle, and bitter experience haven't convinced
me that love does not exist.
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