ome to the "Hermitage" with them. I
did not find him at first. He had gone to pay a call upon Mr. Polk, who
had been nominated for the Presidency as a young hickory to Jackson's
"Old Hickory." He returned soon and was glad to have Mrs. Clayton and
Dorothy come to the "Hermitage." Then I went back to spend the
intervening time with Dorothy. She was truly lovely to me now. Her hair
was more glistening and more golden; her eyes more elfin; the arch of
her nose more patrician. She was gentle and tender. It seemed that all
misunderstandings between us had dissolved. We did not mention any of
the disagreeable things of the past. We communicated with each other
against a background of Zoe being dead, of my being gone from the farm.
Chicago, its growth, its color, its picturesque location by the great
lake, made her eyes dance. She could not hear enough of it. She had
outgrown the Cumberland hills. Her life was monotonous here. As I talked
to Dorothy I had a clearer vision of Abigail. I felt sure now that
Abigail had no magnetism for me. At the same time I began to recall what
I had thought of Dorothy: her southern ways, her aristocratic ideas, her
leisurely life, her cultural environment making for the lady, for the
Walter Scott romanticism. Chicago had blown the mists from my eyes. I
had lived under a clear sky, breathed rough and invigorating breezes.
Yet I was drawn to Dorothy. My mind was poised in a delicate balance.
And as I had impulsively given Zoe half the farm, I now suddenly
proposed to Dorothy while turning from Dorothy to Abigail and from
Abigail to Dorothy.

The afternoon was warm. The soft breeze was stirring the great trees,
the flowering bushes on the lawn. A distant bird was calling. The
Cumberland hills were dreaming beyond the river. And Dorothy suddenly
looked at me with eyes in which supernatural lights were burning
brightly. It was the look which in a woman comprehends and accepts the
man who is before her; it was the secret and sacred fire of nature
illuminating her vision and asking my vision to join hers in an
intuition of a mating. With that look I asked Dorothy to be my wife.

Her hands were lying loosely clasped in her lap. Her head was leaning
gracefully against the tree back of the settee. She closed her eyes;
gave my hand a responding clasp. "Be my wife, Dorothy," I repeated. "Do
you really love me?" she asked. "With all my heart," I said. And I did.
It had come to me in that moment. "Do you lo