Tell him to hurry, will you?'"
Would she come? With his lips Stephen Van Landing was pronouncing the
words of the article he had again begun to read to the blind harpist,
but in his heart, which was beating thickly, other words were surging,
and every now and then he wiped his forehead lest its dampness be seen
by the child's keen eyes. Would she come? Three years had passed since
senseless selfishness on his part had made her spirit flare and she
had given him back his ring. For a moment he had held it, and in the
dancing flames of the logs upon the hearth in the library of her
beautiful old-fashioned home its stones had gleamed brilliantly,
flashed protesting fire; then he had dropped it in the blaze and
turned and left the room. Had she forgotten, or had she suffered, too?
With mechanical monotony the words continued to come from his lips,
but his thoughts were afar off, and presently Carmencita took the
magazine out of his hand.
"Excuse me," she said, "but Father is asleep, and you don't know a
word you're saying. You might as well stop."
Putting the magazine on the table, Carmencita drew the stool on which
she was sitting closer to Van Landing's chair, and, hands clasped
around her knees, looked up into his eyes.
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