Less than twelve hours since, such a
prospect would have saddened me for the day. I look out at it
this morning, through the bright medium of my own happiness, and
not the shadow of a shade falls across the steady inner sunshine
that is poring over my heart.
The pen lingers fondly in my hand, and yet it is little, very
little, that I have left to say. The Purple Volume lies open by
my side, with the stories ranged together in it in the order in
which they were read. My son has learned to prize them already as
the faithful friends who served him at his utmost need. I have
only to wind off the little thread of narrative on which they are
all strung together before the volume is closed and our anxious
literary experiment fairly ended.
My son and I had a quiet hour together on that happy night
before we retired to rest. The little love-plot invented in
George's interests now required one last stroke of diplomacy to
complete it before we all threw off our masks and assumed our
true characters for the future. When my son and I parted for the
night, we had planned the necessary stratagem for taking our
lovely guest by surprise as soon as she was out of her bed in the
morning.
Shortly after seven o'clock I sent a message to Jessie by her
maid, informing her that a good night's rest had done wonders for
me, and that I expected to see her in my study at half past
seven, as we had arranged the evening before.
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