Your friend Charlotte ought to be a happy woman."
"She surely ought, and is. But not happier than the woman you see before
you."
Burns came close, lifted a strand of silky dark hair and drew it through
his fingers. Then he stooped and put it to his lips.
"You stand by the country doctor, do you?" he murmured.
"Always and forever, dear."
"And yet you are a city woman, born and bred."
"What has that to do with it? I should rather drive in the Green Imp over
the country hills with you than ride in the most superb limousine in
Baltimore--with any one else."
He gathered her close in his arms for a minute. "Begone, dull envy,"
said he. "From this moment I'll rejoice with Jack over every worldly
possession and envy him nothing, not even the power to give his wife
everything the world counts riches."
They went down to such a dinner as such homes are famous for. The
candle-light from the fine old family candelabra fell upon four faces
brilliant with the mature youthfulness which marks the years about the
early thirties, the richest years of all yet lived. The splendid colour
of the crimson roses in the centre of the table was not richer in its
bloom than that in Charlotte's cheeks, nor the sparkle of the lights more
attractive than that in Ellen's dark eyes. As for the two men--all the
possible achievement of forceful manhood seemed written in their faces,
so different in feature and colouring, so alike in the look of dominant
purpose and the power born of will and untiring labour.
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