Part 66 (1/2)
It happened so long ago that she smiled as she looked up at him.
”I have never told you the reason. I thought Morris Kemlo had a prior claim.”
”What right had you to think that?”
”From what I heard--and saw.”
”I am ignorant of what you could hear or see. Morris was my twin-brother; he was my blessing; he _is_ my blessing.”
”Is not my reason sufficient?”
”Oh, yes; it doesn't matter. But see that sumach. I have not seen anything so pretty this summer; mother must have them. You wouldn't think it, but she is very fond of wild flowers.”
She stepped aside to pluck the sumach and sprays of goldenrod; they were growing beside a stone wall, and she crossed the road to them. He stood watching her. She was as unconscious as the goldenrod herself.
What had her mother meant? Was it all a mistake? Had his wretched days and wakeful nights been for nothing? Was there nothing for him to be grieved about? He knew now how much he loved her--and she? He was not a part of her life, at all. Would he dare speak the words he had planned to speak?
”Then, Marjorie, you will not write to me,” he began afresh, after admiring the sumach.
”Oh, yes, I will! If you want to! I love to write letters; and my life isn't half full enough yet. I want new people in it.”
”And you would as readily take me as another,” he said, in a tone that she did not understand.
”More readily than one whom I do not know. I want you to hear extracts from one of Mrs. Holmes' delicious letters to-night.”
”You are as happy as a lark to-day.
”That is what mother told me, only she did not specify the bird. Morris, I _am_ happier than I was Sunday morning.”
He colored over the name. She smiled and said, ”I've been thinking about him to-day, and wanting to tell him how changed I am.”
”What has changed you?” he asked.
Her eyes filled before she could answer him. In a few brief sentences, sentences in which each word told, she gave him the story of her dark year.
”Poor little Mousie,” he said tenderly. ”And you bore the dark time all by yourself.”
”That's the way I have my times. But I do not have my happy times by myself, you see.”
”Did nothing else trouble you?”
”No; oh, no! Nothing like that. Father's death was not a trouble. I went with him as far as I could--I almost wanted to go all the way.”
”And there was nothing else to hurt you?” he asked very earnestly.
”Oh, no; why should there be?” she answered, meeting his questioning eyes frankly. ”Do you know of anything else that should have troubled me?”
”No, nothing else. But girls do have sometimes. Didn't your mother help you any? She helps other people.”
”I could not tell her. I could not talk about it. She only thought I was ill, and sent for a physician. Perhaps I did worry myself into feeling ill.”
”You take life easily,” he said.