Indeed, he had nearly forgotten them, he could more readily have
said: "Miss Marjorie."
He had grown very tall; he was the handsomest among the brothers, with an
air of refinement and courtesy that somewhat perplexed them and set him
apart from them. Marjorie still prayed for him every day, that is, for
the Hollis she knew, but this Hollis came to her to-day a stranger; her
school-boy friend was a dream, the friend she had written to so long was
only her ideal, and this tall man, with the golden-red moustache, dark,
soft eyes and deep voice, was a fascinating stranger from the outside
world. She could never write to him again; she would never have the
courage.
And his heart quickened in its beating as he stood beside the white-robed
figure and looked down into the familiar, strange face, and he wondered
how his last letter could have been so jaunty and off-hand. How could he
ever write "Dear Marjorie" again, with this face in his memory? She was
as much a lady as Helen had been, he would be proud to take her among his
friends and say: "This is my old school friend."
But he was busy bringing chairs across the field at this moment and
Marjorie stood alone in the doorway looking down the dusty road. This
doorway was a fitting frame for such a rustic picture as a girl in a
gingham dress, and the small house itself a fitting background.
The house was a story and a half, with a low, projecting roof, a small
entry in the centre, and square, low-studded rooms on both sides, a
kitchen and woodshed stretched out from the back and a small barn stood
in the rear; the house was dazzling in the sun, with its fresh coat of
white paint, and the green blinds gave a cooling effect to the whole;
the door yard was simply a carpet of green with lilac bushes in one
corner and a tall pine standing near the gate; the fence rivalled the
house in its glossy whiteness, and even the barn in the rear had a new
coat of brown to boast of.
Pages:
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208