Except
for the crickets all was still. The cooler air of night brought out
the heavy scents of damp earth and leaves, and over in the deep grass
a late May-apple spilled from its ivory cup the heavy odor of death. A
bob-white fluted in the darkness on the other side of the road.
Her acute apprehension had ceased. William King was so certain, that,
had the reality been less dreadful she would have been ashamed of the
fuss she had made. She wanted only this final assurance that the boy
was at home, safe and sound; then she would think of her own affairs.
She watched the moths fly about the lantern, and when one poor downy
pair of wings touched the hot, domed top and fell fluttering into the
road, she bent forward and looked at it, wondering what she could do
for it. To kill it would be the kindest thing,--to put it out of its
pain. But some obscure connection of ideas made her shudder back from
death, even a moth's death; she lifted the little creature gently, and
laid it in the dewy grass.
Down the Wrights' carriage road she heard a footstep on the gravel; a
step that grew louder and louder, the confident, comforting step of
the kind friend on whom she relied as she had never relied on any
human being.
"What did I tell you?" William called to her, as he loomed out of the
darkness into the circle of light from the lantern.
"He is all right?" she said trembling; "you saw him?"
"I didn't see him, but--"
"Oh," she said blankly.
Pages:
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255