New life beckoned to
the little Marie that night in the old salon of Maria Theresa,
beckoned to her as it called to Stewart, opportunity to one, love
and work to the other. To America!
"I will go," she said at last simply. "And I will not trouble you
there."
"Good!" Stewart held out his hand and Marie took it. With a quick
gesture she held it to her cheek, dropped it.
Peter came back half an hour later, downcast but not hopeless. He
had not found Harmony, but life was not all gray. She was well,
still in Vienna, and--she had come back! She had cared then
enough to come back. To-morrow he would commence again, would
comb the city fine, and when he had found her he would bring her
back, the wanderer, to a marvelous welcome.
He found Stewart gone, and Marie feverishly overhauling her few
belongings by the salon lamp. She turned to him a face still
stained with tears but radiant with hope.
"Peter," she said gravely, "I must prepare my outfit. I go to
America."
"With Stewart?"
"Alone, Peter, to work, to be very good, to be something. I am
very happy, although--Peter, may I kiss you?"
"Certainly," said Peter, and took her caress gravely, patting her
thin shoulder. His thoughts were in the garden with Harmony, who
had cared enough to come back.
"Life," said Peter soberly, "life is just one damned thing after
another, isn't it?"
But Marie was anxiously examining the hem of a skirt.
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