At the house he gathered the flowers beneath his arm; on the way
upstairs shifted them to his hands; flung wide the door.
His Mary, white, a tooth on a trembling lip, her pretty hands clasped,
was before him. In a great whirling shower he flung the blossoms about
her; then took her in his arms.
"Runnygate, Mary! Darling old girl, Runnygate!"
He kissed his Mary.
Last Shots from the Bridge.
If you had patience for another peep from the bridge that I can build,
you might catch a glimpse or so.
Bending over you might see Bill seated at the editor's table of the
editor's room of a monstrously successful monthly magazine of most
monstrous fiction that Mr. Bitt's directors have started; Margaret,
that sentimental young woman, by her husband's side is correcting the
proofs of a poem signed "Margaret Wyvern." It is of the most exquisite
melancholy.
Bending over you might see George upon one of the summer evenings
when, his duties through, he is taking his Mary for a drive in the
country behind that rising seaside resort Runnygate. They are plunging
along in a tremendous dogcart drawn by an immense horse. George is
fully occupied with his steed; Mary, peeping at constant intervals
through the veil that hides the clear blue eyes and the ridiculous
little turned-up nose of her baby, at every corner says: "Oh, George!
Georgie, do be careful! We were on _one_ wheel then, I _know_ we
were!" But along the level the wind riots at her pretty curls as she
sits up very straight and very proud, smiling at this splendid fellow
beside her.
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