In this escape Anna was particularly interested, as it had helped to
make her the delicate creature she was, for since the morning when she
had knelt at her proud father's feet, and begged him to revoke his cruel
decision, and say she might be the bride of a poor missionary, Anna had
greatly changed, and the father, ere he died, had questioned the
propriety of separating the hearts which clung so together. But the
young missionary had married another, and neither the parents nor the
sisters ever forgot the look of anguish which stole into Anna's face,
when she heard the fatal news. She had thought herself prepared, but the
news was just as crushing when it came, accompanied, though it was with
a few last lines from him. Anna kept this letter yet, wondering if the
missionary remembered her yet, and if they would ever meet again.
This was the secret of the missionary papers scattered so profusely through
the rooms at Terrace Hill. Anna was interested in everything pertaining
to the work, though, it must be confessed, that her mind wandered
oftenest to the banks of the Bosphorus, the City of Mosques and
Minarets, where he was laboring. Neither the mother, nor Asenath, nor
Eudora ever spoke to her of him, and so his name was never heard at
Terrace Hill, unless John mentioned it, as he sometimes did, drawing
comical pictures of what Anna would have been by this time had she
married the missionary.
Anna only laughed at her wild brother's comments, telling him once to
beware, lest he, too, follow her example, and was guilty of loving some
one far beneath him. John Richards had spurned the idea. The wife who
bore his name should be every way worthy of a Richards. This was John's
theory, nursed and encouraged by mother and sisters, the former charging
him to be sure and keep his heart from all save the right one. Had he
done so?
A peep at the family as on the day of his expected arrival from Paris
they sat waiting for him will enlighten us somewhat. Taken as a whole,
it was a very pleasant family group, which sat there waiting for the
foreign lion, waiting for the whistle of the engine which was to herald
his approach.
"I wonder if he has changed," said the mother, glancing at the opposite
mirror and arranging the puffs of glossy false hair which shaded her
aristocratic forehead.
"Of course he has changed somewhat," returned Miss Asenath, rubbing
together her white, bony hands, on one of which a costly diamond was
flashing. "Nearly two years of Paris society must have imparted to him
that air distingué so desirable in a young man who has traveled."