Біла пташка
The Dedication
Ilistenedrespectfully,smilingatthisyoungthingforcarryingitsomotherlytome,andintheendIhadtoremindherthatIwasforty-sevenyearsofage.
“Itisquiteyoungforaman,”shesaidbrazenly.
“Myfather,”saidI,“wasnotforty-sevenwhenhedied,andIrememberthinkinghimanoldman.”
“Butyoudon’tthinksonow,doyou?”shepersisted,“youfeelyoungoccasionally,don’tyou?SometimeswhenyouareplayingwithDavidintheGardensyouryouthcomesswingingback,doesitnot?”
“MaryA——,”Icried,grownafraidofthewoman,“Iforbidyoutomakeanymorediscoveriesto-day.”
Butstillshehuggedherscheme,whichIdoubtnotwaswhathadbroughthertomyrooms.“Theyareverydearwomen,”saidshecoaxingly.
“Iamsure,”Isaid,“theymustbedearwomeniftheyarefriendsofyours.”
“Theyarenotexactlyyoung,”shefaltered,“andperhapstheyarenotverypretty—”
Butshehadbeenreadingsorecentlyaboutthedarlingofmyyouththatshehaltedabashedatlast,feeling,Iapprehend,astopinhermindagainstproposingthisthingtome,who,inthosepresumptuousdays,hadthoughttobecontentwithnothinglessthantheloveliestladyinalltheland.
Mythoughtshadrevertedalso,andforthelasttimemyeyessawthelittlehutthroughthepinewoodhaze.ImetMarythere,andwecamebacktothepresenttogether.
Ihavealreadytoldyou,reader,thatthisconversationtookplacenolongeragothanyesterday
