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Hepsey had provided herself with a chair in the center of the front row, directly facing the low platform to be occupied by the chairman. Her leather bag hung formidably on one arm, and a long narrow blank book was laid on her lap.
"What's the matter, Jonathan? You look as if you had committed the unpardonable sin," Hepsey greeted him. "No, it 'aint me," Jonathan replied; "it's Mary McGuire that's the confounded sinner this time." "Well, what's Mary been up to now?" "Mary McGuire's got one of her attacks of house-cleanin' on, and I tell you it's a bad one. Drat the nuisance." "Why Jonathan! Don't swear like that."
I felt a contraction in the region of my heart, as if a cord of steel were binding it. She, at least, was glad that I was alive! "They look something alike now," Hepsey remarked. "Not at all," said Veronica, dropping my hand, and retreating. "Why, Arthur dear, come here!" He clambered into my lap. "Were you killed, my dear sister?" "Not quite, little boy."
"I know," she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and something in her voice that sounded like a farewell. "Miss Thorne," called Joe from the gate, "here's a package for yer. It come on the train." He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned back into the garden. "Say," he shouted, "is Hepsey to home?" Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear.
Don't she know?" The emphasis indicated Miss Thorne. "I guess not," answered Hepsey. "They said good bye right in front of me, and there wa'n't nothin' said about it." "They ain't courtin', then," said Joe, after a few moments of painful thought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself. "Mebbe not," rejoined Hepsey.
"Yes," cogitated Hepsey, half to herself, and half in response, "the lamb's lyin' down all right, and it's about time we'd got the lion curled up by her and purrin' like a cat. But I don't see the signs of it, and I'll have to take my knittin' to-morrow and sit right down in his den and visit with him a little.
Day by day and night by night your glorious image has followed me." "That's a lie," interrupted Hepsey, "he knows I never chased him nowheres, not even when he took that red-headed Smith girl to the Sunday-school picnic over to the Ridge, a year ago come August."
The letter, which was written on ruled note paper, bore every evidence of care and thought. "Hepsey," it began, and, on the line below, with a great flourish under it, "Respected Miss" stood, in large capitals. "Although it is now but a short interval," Ruth read, "since my delighted eyes first rested on your beautiful form " "Five year!" interjected Hepsey.
He said he'd stay over night, and I needn't come in again till to-morrow dinner-time," Mary McGuire replied. Hepsey hastened home, and gathering all the rags she could find, she summoned Nickey and Mullen, one of the men from the farm, and they worked with turpentine for nearly two hours, cleaning off the fresh paint from the porch.
"Oh, awful lonesome," Jonathan responded. "Don't you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?" "I can't say as it kept me awake nights. 'Tisn't bein' alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein' in a crowd that's not your kind." "That's so, Hepsey. But two isn't a crowd. Don't you think you'd like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?"
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