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The picture was the handsome photographed face of Charley Stuart, the letters the letters he had written her to Sandypoint. She began with the first, and read it slowly through then the next, and so on to the end. There were over a dozen in all, and tolerably lengthy.
The new clock recently affixed to the Sandypoint Town Hall, was striking the matutinal hour of ten. The population of Sandypoint might all have been dead and buried, for any sign of life Independence street showed. Doors and windows were all closed in a melancholy way a stray, draggled dog the only living creature to be seen.
She was back in Sandypoint, he beside her, living over the old days, gone forever. She awoke to see the tawny moonshine streaming in, to hear the soft whispers of the night wind, the soft, sleepy lap of the sea on the sands, and to realize, with a thrill and a shock, she was Sir Victor Catheron's wife. His wife! This was her wedding-day. Even in dreams Charley must come to her no more.
It might spoil your chances. Even senile millionnaires don't care to walk into the trap, unless the springs are hidden in roses. Come, throw down that endless sewing, and let's have a walk on the beach. Who knows when we may see the sun go down, together again, over the classic waters of Sandypoint Bay." Edith laughed, but she rose to obey. "And I thought you were not sentimental.
"I was wishing. I always wish when I see the new moon." "For a rich husband of course, Edie!" He sits up suddenly. "There's the baronet! Suppose you go for him." "'Go for him! What a horribly vulgar way you have of speaking. No. I'll leave him for Trixy. Have you had enough of starlight and moonlight, Mr. Stuart, on Sandypoint Bay, because I'm going to turn and row home.
He takes her tablets, coolly writes his name, smiles, shows his white teeth, says "Au revoir," and is gone. She and the baronet are alone. What shall she say to him? She feels a whimsical sort of trepidation as she flutters her fan. As yet the small-talk of society, is Sanscrit, to this young lady from Sandypoint.
The first train from Sandypoint to Boston bears away Edith Darrell and Charley Stuart. Not alone together, however forbid it Mrs. Grundy! Mrs. Rogers, the Sandypoint milliner, is going to New York for the summer fashions, and the young lady travels under her protection. They reach Boston in time for the train that connects with the Fall River boats.
It was to the post-office, and even the old post-master lit up into a smile of welcome at sight of his visitor. It was evident, that when in good temper Miss Darrell must be rather a favorite in the neighborhood. "Letters for you? Well, yes, Miss Edie, I think there is. What's this? Miss Edith S. Darrell, Sandypoint Mass. That's for you, and from New York again, I see. Ah!
One day to rest then down to Sandypoint, leaving gossiping Betts and the silent elderly gentleman behind her. And in the twilight of an August day she entered Sandypoint, and walked slowly through the little town, home. Only three years since she had left, a happy, hopeful girl of eighteen returning now a saddened; lonely woman of twenty-one.
Leaning on her proud and happy bridegroom's arm, she walked through them all, half dazed with all the wealth of color and splendor, and wondering if "I be I." Was it a fairy tale, or was all this for Edith Darrell? Edith Darrell, who such a brief while gone, used to sweep and dust, sew and darn, in dull, unlovely Sandypoint, and get a new merino dress twice a year?
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