The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (13.1897)

280

Lucy Wren

The commonplace words that divide were slipping further
and further from her thought.

“ Anything would do,” she said, vaguely, to herself—“ any-
thing about the bazaar—about—the school.”

But the command had become mere words in her brain. It
was the evening of her revolt. Instead of speaking she lifted her
eyes—and he had been waiting, knowing that she must, and that
he would hold her in his arms. She had not resisted—she had
leant her cheek against his, and put her arms around his neck.
Not until they had moved apart for a moment, her cheeks flushed
and she was frightened.

“ Don’t think, my darling,” he said. “ Don’t, don’t ; we have
such a little while together.”

And he drew her close again.

“ My little one—my love—my life,” he murmured to her.
“ And I found you in all that darkness.”

“And I you. The river was so dreadful, just as things

5?

are——

“Yes, I knew—I saw what you were feeling, and I knew—
because I too-”

“ Yes—yes, I know—I knew-”

There was a footstep on the gravel path.

“ Katharine,” said Lucy, despairingly, but without a start ;
and not until she heard her hand on the door she rose and stood
by the mantel-piece.

“ May I introduce Mr. Dawson, Katharine ? ”

Katharine was pleased to meet him, and she had plenty to say.

Lucy picked her hat up from the floor, and stood silent. Katha-
rine thought, as she had often thought, it was a pity Lucy would
not talk to strangers ; she did not do herself justice. She had
said a good deal on several subjects, before Tom Dawson rose.

Public