Part 44 (1/2)

”Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You must wait here while I go and get you some--”

”Don't go!” He almost shouted it. ”If--if you do I'll--I'll--I think I'm going to faint again.”

”Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something.

Stay just where you are.”

”Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl.

Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll crawl after you on my hands and knees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?”

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, at the breakers beyond. Then she looked down again at him.

”Yes,” she said. . . . ”OH, are you going to faint again? Don't! Please don't!”

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late ”John Brown,” opened his eyes. ”I am not going to faint,” he observed. ”I was merely trying to realize that I was fully conscious.”

Some time after this--hours and minutes do not count in paradise--he remembered the item in the paper.

”By George!” he exclaimed, ”I had something to show you. I'm afraid I've lost it. Oh, no I here it is.”

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable.

Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur.

However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

”You were very wise,” she said sagely.

”Not so wise as I've become since,” he a.s.serted with decision. Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, ”I'm afraid, dear, people won't say as much for you, when they know.”

”I'm satisfied.”

”You may have to wait all those years--and years--you spoke of.”

”I will.”

But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand at her feet.

”Has my happiness affected my wits?” he demanded. ”Or does salt water bring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?”

He was pointing to a paragraph in the ”Personals” column of the New York paper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read. The particular ”Personal” to which he pointed was this:

”R. A. B.” Wherever you are. This is to certify that I hereby acknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. matter; witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly.

Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business. Come back.

Partners.h.i.+p awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or n.o.body as you see fit.

”FATHER.”