She was expecting Gray that evening. Would
there be time before he came, she wondered, for a little errand she
wanted to do? Turning back into the hall, she caught a jacket from the
hook where it hung and hurried down to the gate, settling her arms in
the sleeves as she ran. There would be time if she went fast. She wished
to get the little packet into which she had made Gray's letters months
ago, dreading to look even at the folded outsides of them, tucking them
away on the high shelf of her dress-closet at the Pap Himes
boarding-house, and trying to forget them. Nobody would know where to
look but herself. She got permission from Mavity to go upstairs. Once
there, the letters made their own plea; and alone in the little room
that was lately her own, she opened the packet, carrying the contents to
the fading light and glancing over sheet after sheet. She knew them all
by heart. How often she had stood at that very window devouring these
same words, not realizing then, as she did now, what deep meaning was in
each phrase, how the feeling expressed increased from the first to the
last. Across the ravine, one of the loom fixers found the evening warm
enough to sit on the porch playing his guitar. The sound of the twanging
strings, and the appealing vibration of his young voice in a plaintive
minor air, came over to her.
Pages:
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371