"Yes, yes! When I see how gentle women are with us clods of men, I

really, I--you know--" William had never since his courting days got

into such a bog of sentiment, and he stammered his way out of it by

saying that Sam was a perfect nuisance.

When they reached the gateway of the senior warden's place, Mrs.

Richie said that she would wait. "I'll stand here in the road; and if

you will make some excuse, and find out--"

"Very well," he said. "I'll come back as quickly as I can, and tell

you he's all right. There isn't a particle of reason for anxiety, but

it's a better sedative for you than bromide. That's the why I'm doing

it," said William candidly. He gave her the lantern, and said he did

not like to leave her. "You won't be frightened? You can see the house

from here, and can call if you want me. I'll have to stay about ten

minutes, or they wouldn't understand my coming in."

She nodded, impatient at his delay, and he slipped into the shadow of

the maples and disappeared. For a minute she could hear the crunch of

his footsteps on the gravel of the driveway. She sat down on the grass

by the roadside, and leaned her head against the big white gate-post.

The lantern burned steadily beside her, casting on the ground a shower

of yellow spots that blurred into a widening circle of light. Except

for the crickets all was still. The cooler air of night brought out

the heavy scents of damp earth and leaves, and over in the deep grass

a late May-apple spilled from its ivory cup the heavy odor of death. A

bob-white fluted in the darkness on the other side of the road.

Her acute apprehension had ceased. William King was so certain, that,

had the reality been less dreadful she would have been ashamed of the

fuss she had made. She wanted only this final assurance that the boy

was at home, safe and sound; then she would think of her own affairs.

She watched the moths fly about the lantern, and when one poor downy

pair of wings touched the hot, domed top and fell fluttering into the

road, she bent forward and looked at it, wondering what she could do

for it. To kill it would be the kindest thing,--to put it out of its

pain. But some obscure connection of ideas made her shudder back from

death, even a moth's death; she lifted the little creature gently, and

laid it in the dewy grass.




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