Beth Norvell

"Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.

He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it

could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked

at it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that

he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "If you are waiting my

word, I send it."

He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring

down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his

breath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; then

the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.

There he paused, his hand already upon the knob. What use? What use?

Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might no

longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere

incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an

interview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thought

wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. If

she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.

He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited

him below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and

walked to the elevator.

She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her

cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With a

single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes

clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.

For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of

confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.

"You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak

lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was not

like you to do that."

"I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"

he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them.

"My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dream

it was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."

She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.

"I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to

appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forget

entirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of you

in the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave me

courage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyes

to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of her

waist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of

feeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day that

you would come."