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Jim Greely, for instance, Mr. James Greely, of the Millings National Bank he never used to patronize The Aura. And now he's there every night till twelve and often later, for he won't obey me any more. I wonder whether Mr. and Mrs. Greely are glad that you are getting a better type of customer! Mrs.
Sheila thrust the note into her pocket and went over to the table to light her lamp. "I know quite well that you meant Dickie," she said. "Nobody in Millings would ever dream of comparing Mr. James Greely to a worm, even if he came out from the ground just in time for the early bird to peck him. I know that."
She added with a queer, dazed realization of the truth: "I've nowhere else to go." "Haven't you any folks?" he asked. "No." "Got tired of Millings?" "Yes very." "I don't blame you! It's not much of a town. You'll like Hidden Creek. And Miss Blake's ranch is a mighty pretty place, lonesome but wonderfully pretty. Right on a bend of the creek, 'way up the valley, close under the mountains.
He went back to his bench and sat there, trembling and swearing softly to himself. He had not the strength to look farther. He was no longer the Dickie of Millings, a creature possessed of loneliness and vacancy and wandering fancies, he was no longer Sheila's lover, he was a prey to strong desires.
"Seems like I recollect a lady that didn't want no food to be put in for her." "I remember her, too," said Sheila, between bites, "but very, very vaguely." She stood up after a third sandwich, shook crumbs from her skirt, and stretched her arms. "What a great sleep I've had! Since six o'clock!" She stared down at the lower world. "I've left somebody at Millings."
Babe had protested against Momma's disposal of the "girl from Noo York," and had begged that Sheila be allowed to share her own red, white, and blue boudoir below. But Sheila had preferred her small room. It was red as a rose at sunset, still and high, remote from Millings, and it faced The Hill. Now, the gaslight flared against the bare walls and ceiling.
I hadn't heard he was sick even, much less" he cleared his throat "gone beyond," he ended, quoting from the "Millings Gazette" obituary column. "You get me?" "Yes," said Sheila, in her voice that in some mysterious way was another expression of the clear mistiness of her eyes and the suppleness of her body. "You are Mr. Hudson." She twisted her hands together behind her back.
She had her box under her feet, and so was not entirely hidden by the dishpan. She drew up her head and faced him. "Mr. Hudson," she began "please! I can't go to a dance. You know I can't " "Nonsense!" said Pap. "In the bright lexicon of youth there's no such word as 'can't. Say, girl, you can and you must. I won't have Babe crying her eyes out and myself the most unpopular man in Millings.
"Oh, gracious!" said Sheila, woman and sprite and adventurer again. "Where the dickens is my hat? Did it fall out?" "No, ma'am," Thatcher smiled in a relieved fashion. "I put it under the seat." Sheila scrambled to a perch on one of the sacks and faced the surface of half a world. "Oh, Mr. Thatcher, isn't it too wonderful! How high are we? Is this the other side? Oh, no, I can see Millings.
It was a strange hand, small and rather unsteady. The envelope was fat, the postmark Millings. Her flush of surprise ebbed. She knew whose letter it was Sylvester Hudson's. He had found her out. She did not even notice Cosme's departure. She went up to her loft, sat down on her cot and read.
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