Літо
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Hescrambledoverthesideofthestand,andholdinguphisarmcaughtherasshesprangtotheground.Hepassedhisarmaboutherwaist,steadyingheragainstthedescendingrushofpeople;andsheclungtohim,speechless,exultant,asifallthecrowdingandconfusionaboutthemwereamerevainstirringoftheair.
“Come,”herepeated,“wemusttrytomakethetrolley.”Hedrewheralong,andshefollowed,stillinherdream.Theywalkedasiftheywereone,soisolatedinecstasythatthepeoplejostlingthemoneverysideseemedimpalpable.Butwhentheyreachedtheterminustheilluminatedtrolleywasalreadyclangingonitsway,itsplatformsblackwithpassengers.Thecarswaitingbehinditwereasthicklypacked;andthethrongabouttheterminuswassodensethatitseemedhopelesstostruggleforaplace.
“LasttripuptheLake,”amegaphonebellowedfromthewharf;andthelightsofthelittlesteam-boatcamedancingoutofthedarkness.
“Nousewaitinghere;shallwerunuptheLake?”Harneysuggested.
Theypushedtheirwaybacktotheedgeofthewaterjustasthegang-plankloweredfromthewhitesideoftheboat.Theelectriclightattheendofthewharfflashedfullonthedescendingpassengers,andamongthemCharitycaughtsightofJuliaHawes,herwhitefeatheraskew,andthefaceunderitflushedwithcoarselaughter.Asshesteppedfromthegang-plankshestoppedshort,herdark-ringedeyesdartingmalice.
