They
seemed to him to have been made expressly for him. A starved bank of
moss--that was exactly what he had been, only he had not known it, but
had fancied himself a garden of rich resource. He knew better now,
starved he was, and starved he would remain--unless he could make the
violets his own. No doubt but he had found them!
He followed an impulse. Rising, the sheet of yellowed paper in his hand,
he walked over to the typewriter. Without apology he laid the sheet upon
the pile of typed ones at her side.
"See what I've found in an old volume of state speeches."
Roberta's busy hand stopped. Her eyes scanned the yellow page upon which
the stiff, fine handwriting, clearly that of a man, stood out legibly as
print. Business woman she might be, but she could not so far abstract
herself as not to be touched by the hint of romance involved in finding
such words in such a place.
"How strange!" she owned. "And they've been there a long time, by the
look of the paper and ink. I never saw the handwriting before. Perhaps
Uncle Calvin lent the book to somebody long ago and the 'somebody' left
this in it."
"Shall I put it back, or show it to Judge Gray?"
He remained beside her though she had handed back the paper.
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