And so, during this
period when her brain would not operate, she let herself be swept on
by the momentum of the forces which had previously determined her
direction--her pride, her self-confidence, her ambition, the alliance
of fortune between her and Barney and Old Jimmie.
They were sitting in this silence when footsteps again sounded on the
gravel, and a shadow blotted the arbor floor.
"Excuse me, Larry," said a man's voice.
"Sure. What is it, Joe?"
Before her Maggie saw the tall, thin man in overalls, his removed
broad-brimmed hat revealing his white hair, whom she had noticed a
little earlier working among the flowers. He held a bunch of the
choicest pickings from the abundant rose gardens, their stems bound in
maple leaves as temporary protection against their thorns. He was
gazing at Maggie, respectful, hungry admiration in his somber eyes.
"I thought perhaps the young lady might care for these." He held out
the roses to her. And then quickly, to forestall refusal: "I cut out
more than we can use for the house. And I'd like to have you have
them."
"Thank you," and Maggie took the flowers.
For an instant their eyes held. In every outward circumstance the
event was a commonplace--this meeting of father and daughter, not
knowing each other.
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