be children then, would they? And—supposing they died before? The woman would[131] be terribly lonely, wouldn’t she—in the afternoon?” [131] Winthrop turned his face away and looked out across the sunlit garden. “Yes,” he said, very soberly; “yes, she would be lonely.” Something in his tones drew Holly’s attention. How deep the lines about his mouth were this morning, and how gray the hair was at his temples; she had not noticed it before. Yes, after all, thirty-eight was quite old. That thought or some other moved her to a sudden sentiment of pity. Impulsively she tore one of the big yellow roses from the bunch and with her free hand tossed it into his lap. “Do you know, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, softly, “I reckon we’re going to be friends, you and I,—that is, if you want to.” Winthrop sprang to his feet, the rose in his hand. “I do want to, Miss Holly,” he said, earnestly. Somehow, before she realized it, Holly’s hand was in his. “I want it very much. I haven’t very many friends,[132] I guess, and when one gets toward forty he doesn’t find them as easily as he did. Is it a bargain, then? We are to be friends, very good friends, Miss Holly?” [132] “Yes,” answered Holly, simply, “very good friends.” Her dark eyes looked seriously into his for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand, laughed softly under her breath and turned toward the door. But on the threshold she looked back over her shoulder, the old mischief in her face. “But don’t you go and forget that you’re my slave, Mr. Winthrop,” she said. “Never! You have fettered me with roses.” [133] [133] VII. Miss India made no exception that morning to her general rule, and Holly presided over the coffee cups. The table was rather large, and although Winthrop’s place was in the middle, facing the open door onto the back porch, there was quite an expanse of emptiness between him and his hostess. Through the door and across the bridge to the kitchen Phœbe trotted at minute intervals to bring fresh relays of hot biscuits and buckwheat cakes. The
Prev.
Back
Top