But if it was all rose color then, what was it that first evening they
spent at home,--in their own home, in the little house which was so
bright and pretty that it seemed more like a dream than a reality?
What color did life look when Grif led Dolly across the threshold, half
trembling himself for very joy? What color did it look when he shut the
door of the little parlor, and, turning round, went to her and folded
her in his arms close to his beating heart?
Rose color! It was golden and more than golden! And yet, for the first
minute, Dolly could not speak, and the next she laid her cheek in her
favorite place, on the lapel of Grif's coat, and burst into a great
gush of soft, warm tears,--tears without a touch of any other element,
however, than love and happiness.
“_Home_, Grif!” she said.
He was quite pale and he had almost lost his voice, too, but he managed
to answer her, unsteadily.
“Yes, Dolly,” he said; “home!” And he stroked the bright hair upon his
breast, with a world of meaning in his touch.
“Do you think,” she said next, “that I am good enough and wise enough to
take care of it, and to take care of _you_, Grif?”
“Do you think,” he said, “that I am good enough and wise enough to take
care of _you_?”
She lifted up her face and kissed him.
“We love each other,” she whispered, “we trust each other, and so we
can help each other, and God will help us both. Ah, Grif, how bright and
sweet life is!”
And she scarcely knew, tender little soul, that instead of “life” she
should have said “love.”
There we will leave them both, merely hinting at the festivities that
followed,--merely hinting at the rejoicings at Bloomsbury Place, the
gatherings at Brabazon Lodge, and the grand family reception at the
house of the bride,--a reception at which Dolly shone forth with renewed
splendor, presiding over a gorgeous silver tea-service, which was one
of Miss MacDowlas's many gifts, dispensing tea and coffee with the
deportment of a housekeeper of many years' standing, and utterly
distracting Grif with her matronly airs and graces.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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