The little figure on the
table had a sweet, round, dimply face, and wooing lips, and loving
eyes. The fiance took her in his arms, and stroked the round pink
cheek, and kissed the curls on her forehead. Glory faltered, and tried
to brush the mist from before her eyes. She was dreaming,--there was
no tiny figure on the table. There could not be. Lover--they both
called him Lover; he had a fancy for the name--Lover was gazing up at
her with eyes full of pride and admiration. She finished hurriedly and
sat down, wiping the moisture from her white brow. 'Such a strange
thing, Lover,' she whispered. 'I saw a tiny figure come tripping up to
you, and she caressed and kissed you, and ran her fingers over your
lips so childishly and--so adoringly, and--' Lover looked startled.
'What!' he ejaculated. For little Precious had tricks like that.
'Yes, and she had one tiny curl over her left ear, and you kissed it.'
'You saw that?' 'Yes, just now.' She looked at him; he was pale and
disturbed. 'Have you ever been married, Lover?' she asked. 'Never,'
he denied quickly. But he was strangely silent the rest of the
evening. The next morning Glory was ill. When he called, they took
him up to her room, and he sat beside her and held her hand.
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