Maria， on the other side， walked slowly homeward along the new road that had ended so abruptly.Her lip trembled， and， letting her skirt drag in the dust， she put up her hand to suppress the first hint of emotion.It angered her that he had had the power to provoke her so， and for the moment the encounter seemed to have bereft her of her last shreds of womanly reserve.It was as if a strong wind had blown over her， laying her bosom bare， and she flushed at the knowledge that he had heard the fluttering of her breath and seen the indignant tears gather to her eyes--he a boorish stranger who hated her because of her name.For the first time in her life she had run straight against an impregnable prejudice--had felt her feminine charm ineffectual against a stern masculine resistance.She was at the age when the artificial often outweighs the real--when the superficial manner with a woman is apt to be misunderstood， and so to her Christopher Blake now appeared stripped even of his physical comeliness； the interview had left her with an impression of mere vulgar incivility.As she entered the house she met Fletcher passing through the hall with the mail-bag in his hand， and a little later， while she sat in a big chair by her chamber window， Miss Saidie came in and laid a letter in her lap."It's from Mr.
Wyndham， I think， Maria.Shall I light a candle？" "Not yet； it is so warm I like the twilight." "But won't you read the letter？""Oh， presently.There's time enough." Miss Saidie came to the window and leaned out to sniff the climbing roses， her shapeless figure outlined against the purple dusk spangled with fireflies.
Her presence irritated the girl， who stirred restlessly in her chair."Is he coming， Maria， do you think？""If I let him--yes." "And he wants to marry you？" The girl laughed bitterly."He hasn't seen me in my home yet，" she answered， "and our vulgarity may be too much for him.He's very particular， you know." The woman at the window flinched as if she had been struck."But if he loves you， Maria？" "Oh， he loves me for what isn't me，" she answered， "for my 'culture，' as he calls it--for the gloss that has been put over me in the last ten years." "Still if you care for him， dear--" "I don't know--Idon't know，" said Maria， speaking in the effort to straighten her disordered thoughts rather than for the enlightenment of Miss Saidie."I was sure I loved him before I came home--but this place upsets me so--I hate it.It makes me feel raw， crude， unlike myself.When I come back here I seem to lose all that Ihave learned， and to grow vulgar， like Jinnie Spade， at the store." "Not like her， Maria." "Well， I ought to know better， of course， but I don't believe I do--not when I'm here." "Then why not go away？ Don't think of us； we can get along as we used to do." "I don't think of you，" said the girl."I don't think of anybody in the world except myself--and that's the awful part--that's the part I hate.I'm selfish to the core， and I know it.""But you do love Jack Wyndham？" "Oh， I love him to distraction！
Light the candle， Aunt Saidie， and let me read his letter.I can tell you， word for word， what is in it before I break the seal.
Six months ago I went into a flutter at the sight of his handwriting.Six months before that I was madly in love with Dick Bright--and six months from to-day--Oh， well， I suppose I really haven't much heart to know--and if I ever care for anybody it must be for Jack--that's positive."Standing beside the lighted candle on the bureau， she read the letter twice over， and then turning away， wrote her answer kneeling beside the big chair at the window.
CHAPTER II.The Romance that Was Waking in the night she said again， "I love him to distraction，"and slipping under the dimity curtains of the bed， sought his letter where she had left it on the bureau.The full light of the harvest moon was in the room--a light so soft that it lay like a yellow fluid upon the floor.It seemed almost as if one might stoop and fill the open palms.
She found the letter thrown carelessly upon the pincushion， and holding it to her lips， paused a moment beside the window， looking beyond the shaven lawn and the clustered oaks to where the tobacco fields lay golden beneath the moon.It was such a night as seemed granted by some kindly deity for the fulfillment of lovers' vows， and the girl， standing beside the open window， grew suddenly sad， as one who sees a vision with the knowledge that it is not life.When presently she went back to bed it was to lie sleepless until dawn， with the love letter held tightly in her hands.
The next day a restlessness like that of fever worked in her blood， and she ran from turret to basement of the roomy old house， calling Will to come and help her find amusement.
"Play ball with me， Will，" she said； "I feel as if I were a child to-day." " Oh， it's no fun playing with a girl，" replied the boy；"besides， I am going fishing in the river with Zebbadee Blake； Ishan't be back till supper，" and shouldering his fishing-rod he flung off with his can of worms.Miss Saidie was skimming big pans of milk in the spring-house， and Maria watched her idly for a time， growing suddenly impatient of the leisurely way in which the spoon travelled under the yellow cream."I don't see how you can be so fond of it，" she said at last."Lord， child， I never could abide dairy work，" responded Miss Saidie， setting the skimmed pan aside and carefully lifting another from the flat stones over which a stream 骹 water trickled."And yet you've done nothing else all your long life，" wondered Maria."When it comes to doing a thing in this world，" returned the little woman， removing a speck of dust from the cream with the point of the spoon， "I don't ask myself whether I like it or not， but what's the best way to get it done.I've spent sixty years doing things I wasn't fond of， and I don't reckon I'm any the less happy for having done 'em well." "But I should be，" asserted Maria， and then， with her white parasol over her bared head， she started for a restless stroll along the old road under the great chestnuts.
