Лето

           Charitysnatchedtheletterwithalaugh.“Oh,thankyou—good-night,”shecalledoutoverhershoulderassheranupthepath.IfshehadlingeredamomentsheknewshewouldhavehadAllyatherheels.

           Shehurriedupstairsandfeltherwayintoherdarkroom.Herhandstrembledasshegropedforthematchesandlithercandle,andtheflapoftheenvelopewassocloselystuckthatshehadtofindherscissorsandslititopen.Atlengthsheread:

           “DEARCHARITY:

           “Ihaveyourletter,andittouchesmemorethanIcansay.Won’tyoutrustme,inreturn,todomybest?Therearethingsitishardtoexplain,muchlesstojustify;butyourgenerositymakeseverythingeasier.AllIcandonowistothankyoufrommysoulforunderstanding.Yourtellingmethatyouwantedmetodorighthashelpedmebeyondexpression.Ifeverthereisahopeofrealizingwhatwedreamedofyouwillseemebackontheinstant;andIhaven’tyetlostthathope."

           Shereadtheletterwitharush;thenshewentoverandoverit,eachtimemoreslowlyandpainstakingly.Itwassobeautifullyexpressedthatshefounditalmostasdifficulttounderstandasthegentleman’sexplanationoftheBiblepicturesatNettleton;butgraduallyshebecameawarethatthegistofitsmeaninglayinthelastfewwords.“Ifeverthereisahopeofrealizingwhatwedreamedof...”

           Butthenhewasn’tevensureofthat?SheunderstoodnowthateverywordandeveryreticencewasanavowalofAnnabelBalch’spriorclaim.Itwastruethathewasengagedtoher,andthathehadnotyetfoundawayofbreakinghisengagement.