She was an heiress to wealth that was reputed bordering on a million. Her
money prospects, however, in no way marred the goodness of her character.
Had she been overly proud she would certainly not have permitted the
attentions of the humble engineer, August Bordine.
There was genuine love between them, too, not of the effusive, sickish
sort, but that love that enobles and glorifies.
On the evening in question, Rose sat alone gazing thoughtfully at the
carpet. There was a troubled look on her countenance, for only that day
she had heard bad news. A horse had run away with her lover and flung him
so violently against a post as to injure him severely.
In the evening paper she read the account, and now she was debating
whether or not it would be unmaidenly for her to call on her lover. In
the main Rose was a sensible girl, yet she was seldom known to fly in the
face of the proprieties.
August might die!
It was this thought that brought a moisture to the eyes of the heiress,
just as Miss Williams, her cousin of uncertain age, entered the room.
"It would certainly never do, Rose, never.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74