The book the old lady had
talked of could be no other than Hector's book. No other than Hector
could have written it. What a treasure there was in the world that she
had never seen! How big was it? what was it like? She was sure to know
it the moment her eyes fell upon it. But why had he never told her about
it? He might have wanted to surprise her, but she was not the least
surprised. She had known it all the time! He had never talked about what
he was writing, and still less would he talk of what he was going to
write. Intentions were not worthy of his beautiful mouth! Perhaps he did
not want her to read it yet. When he did, he would send her a copy. And,
oh! when would her mother be able to read it? Was it a very dear book?
There could be no thought of their buying it! Between them, she and her
mother could not have shillings enough for that. When the right time
came, he would send it. Then it would be twice as much hers as if she
had bought it for herself.
The next day she met Mr. and Mrs. Macintosh, and the former actually
congratulated her on what Hector had done and what people thought of him
for it; but the latter only gave a sniff. And the next post brought the
book itself, and with it a petition from Hector that she would fix the
day to join him in London.
Annie made haste, therefore, to get ready the dress of white linen in
which she meant to be married, and a lady, the sister of Hector's
friend, meeting her in London, they were married the next day, and went
together to Hector's humble lodgings in a northern suburb.
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