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Montague wondered what she would be like when he saw her again. He wondered what five years of suffering and experience would have done for her; whether it would have weakened her enthusiasm and dried up her springs of joy. Lucy grown serious was something that was difficult for him to imagine.

And then again would come a mood of doubt, when he distrusted the thrill which the memory of her brought. Would she be able to maintain her spell in competition with what life had brought him since?

His revery was broken by Oliver, who came in to ask him if he wished to go to meet her. “Those Southern trains are always several hours late,” he said. “I told my man to go over and 'phone me.”

“You are to have her in charge,” said Montague; “you had better see her first. Tell her I will come in the evening.” And so he went to the great apartment hotel—the same to which Oliver had originally introduced him. And there was Lucy.

She was just the same. He could see it in an instant; there was the same joyfulness, the same eagerness; there was the same beauty, which had made men's hearts leap up. There was not a line of care upon her features—she was like a perfect flower come to its fulness.

She came to him with both her hands outstretched. “Allan!” she cried, “Allan! I am so glad to see you!” And she caught his hands in hers and stood and gazed at him. “My, how big you have grown, and how serious! Isn't he splendid, Ollie?”

Oliver stood by, watching. He smiled drily. “He is a trifle too epic for me,” he said.

“Oh, my, how wonderful it seems to see you!” she exclaimed. “It makes me think of fifty things at once. We must sit down and have a long talk. It will take me all night to ask you all the questions I have to.”

Lucy was in mourning for her father, but she had contrived to make her costume serve as a frame for her beauty. She seemed like a flaming ruby against a background of black velvet. “Tell me how you have been,” she rushed on. “And what has happened to you up here? How is your mother?”

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“Just the same,” said Montague; “she wants you to come around to-morrow morning.”

“I will,” said Lucy,—“the first thing, before I go anywhere. And Mammy Lucy! How is Mammy Lucy?”

“She is well,” he replied. “She's beside herself to see you.”

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“Tell her I am coming!” said she. “I would rather see Mammy Lucy than the Brooklyn Bridge!”

She led him to a seat, placed herself opposite him, devouring him with her eyes. “It makes me seem like a girl again to see you,” she said.