She smiled lovingly as he ambled away. Poor old Anderson’s confidence in himself was only exceeded by his great love for her.
At last June smiled upon Rosalie and she was off for Boston. Her gowns were from Albany and her happiness from heaven—according to a reverential Tinkletown impression. For two weeks after her departure, Anderson Crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns.
This humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of Boston social life. It has to deal with the adventures of Anderson Crow and Rosalie Gray in so far as they pertain to a place called Tinkletown. The joys and pleasures that Rosalie experienced during that month of June were not unusual in character. The loneliness of Anderson Crow was not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every one else. Suffice to say that the Bonners, mere, fils and fille, exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the girl—and they succeeded. The usual gaiety, the same old whirl of experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being entertained, feted and admired. She was a success—a pleasure in every way—not only to her hosts but to herself. If there was a cloud hanging over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the wiser; the silver lining was always visible.
Once while she was driving with the Bonners she saw a man whom she knew, but did not expect to ever look upon again. She could not be mistaken in him. It was Sam Welch, chief of the kidnapers. He was gazing at her from a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before Bonner could set the police on his trail.
Commencement Day at Cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men—the men famous in every branch of study and athletics. Among them was handsome Tom Reddon. He came to see her at the Bonner home. Elsie Banks was to return in September from Honolulu, and they were to be married in the fall. Wicker Bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her eyes, but none appeared. That night she told him, in reply to an impulsive demand, that she did not care for Reddon, that she never had known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him.
“Have you ever been in love, Rosalie?” he asked ruthlessly.
“Yes,” she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes.
“And could you never learn to love any one else?”
“I think not, Wicker,” she said ever so softly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn. “I should not have asked.”
And so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his eyes.
The Mysterious Questioner