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Richard Everidge sat in his handsome library one evening in early summer, reading a letter from his only child, Muriel, the joy of his heart: 'MY DEAREST PAPA, We are stopping now in the quaintest little place, a veritable Sleepy Hollow, like its name, where Rip Van Winkle might have snoozed away for centuries without fear of being disturbed.
Everidge keep the rooms in dainty order; drove with her along the grass-bordered roads, while ears and eyes feasted on the symphonies of Nature and the ever changing beauty of the hills; or stood beside Joanna in a trance of delight out in the fragrant dairy, whose windows opened into a wild sweetness of fluttering leaves, and whose cool stone floor made a channel for a purling brook, watching her as with dexterous hands she shaped and moulded the bubbley dough or tossed up an omelet or made one of her delicious cherry pies, conscious through it all of the sweet influence which seemed to pervade every corner of the house and grounds.
Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, "it is incomprehensible to me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have absolutely no affinity." Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. "If you will make holes, Horace, I must make darns," she said. "Not a natural sequence at all!" he retorted testily.
"That is, countin' years, and not experience." "I'm just about forty-five," said Tom, "countin' both." "Well, she came from Georgia " "And so did I," observed Tom Osby, casually. Dan Anderson was troubled. His horizon was wider than Tom Osby's. "It's far, Tom," said he; "it's very far." "I everidge about twenty mile a day," said Tom, not wholly understanding. "I can make it in less'n a week."
Evadne looked at her gratefully. No one had ever cared to know about her father before. Forgetting her weariness in the absorbing interest of her subject, she talked on and on, and Mrs. Everidge with the wisdom of true sympathy, made no attempt to check her, knowing full well that the relief of the tried heart was helping her more than any physical rest could do.
Richard Everidge had been married for three years now, and had a little girl. She clasped her hands with one quick cry of pain. What must he have thought of her all these years? Her friend, who had always been so kind! so kind! 'Pawliney! called her father, in the querulous accents of one whose brain is weakening.
I am free to confess I never received such a welcome to any church before. 'When I gave her my name she looked puzzled for a minute. "Everidge," she repeated. "It is, it must be; she would be just about your age. I believe you are the little Muriel that my cousin Belle used to write about. You must come home with me at once: your father was my dear friend in the long ago."
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