It was, perhaps, a test of her love that she constantly
longed to lose herself in him, or better, possibly, to find herself in
him.
Two days before the date fixed for their sailing, as George left the
Harris home, Gertrude was urging him to accompany her and her father,
when he ventured to say, "Gertrude, this is what would please me
immensely, take my sister May with you. I will gladly pay her expenses.
And when your summer's travel is over, I want May to study music abroad."
"Capital!" said Gertrude. "Both you and your sister May shall join our
party. Please don't say another word on the subject, nor tell father,
till we meet tomorrow evening," and she kissed him an affectionate
good-night.
The next evening before the stars shone; Gertrude sat on the piazza
anxiously awaiting him, for she had good news for her lover. Gertrude's
white handkerchief told him that she recognized his coming, though he was
still two blocks away. How light and swift the steps of a lover; though
miles intervene, they seem but a step. An evening in Gertrude's presence
was for George but a moment. The touch of her hand, the rustle of her
dress, and the music of her voice, all, like invisible silken cords, held
him a willing prisoner.
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