And yet so
potent was its individuality that it required no signature. No one but
John Milton Harcourt could have written it. His personality stood out of
it so strongly that once or twice Mrs. Ashwood almost unconsciously
put up her little hand before her face with a half mischievous,
half-deprecating smile, as if the big honest eyes of its writer were
upon her.
It began by an elaborate apology for declining the appointment offered
him by one of her friends, which he was bold enough to think had been
prompted by her kind heart. That was like her, but yet what she might
do to any one; and he preferred to think of her as the sweet and gentle
lady who had recognized his merit without knowing him, rather than the
powerful and gracious benefactress who wanted to reward him when she did
know him. The crown that she had all unconsciously placed upon his head
that afternoon at the little hotel at Crystal Spring was more to him
than the Senator's appointment; perhaps he was selfish, but he could not
bear that she who had given so much should believe that he could accept
a lesser gift. All this and much more! Some of it he had wanted to say
to her in San Francisco at times when they had met, but he could not
find the words. But she had given him the courage to go on and do the
only thing he was fit for, and he had resolved to stick to that, and
perhaps do something once more that might make him hear again her voice
as he had heard it that day, and again see the light that had shone in
her eyes as she sat there and read.
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