The blood came back to the young man's cheeks, as he lifted it to his
lips, even as they walked there in the street, touched it gently with
them, and said, "It is mine!"
Iris did not contradict him.
The seasons pass by so rapidly, that I am startled to think how much has
happened since these events I was describing. Those two young people
would insist on having their own way about their own affairs,
notwithstanding the good lady, so justly called the Model, insisted that
the age of twenty-five years was as early as any discreet young lady
should think of incurring the responsibilities, etc., etc. Long before
Iris had reached that age, she was the wife of a young Maryland engineer,
directing some of the vast constructions of his native State,--where he
was growing rich fast enough to be able to decline that famous Russian
offer which would have made him a kind of nabob in a few years. Iris
does not write verse often, nowadays, but she sometimes draws. The last
sketch of hers I have seen in my Southern visits was of two children, a
boy and girl, the youngest holding a silver goblet, like the one she held
that evening when I--I was so struck with her statue-like beauty.
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