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Miss
Hatchard
,
pale
with
fatigue
and
excitement
,
thanked
her
young
assistants
,
and
stood
in
the
porch
,
leaning
on
her
crutches
and
waving
a
farewell
as
she
watched
them
troop
away
down
the
street
.
Charity
had
slipped
off
among
the
first
;
but
at
the
gate
she
heard
Ally
Hawes
calling
after
her
,
and
reluctantly
turned
.
“
Will
you
come
over
now
and
try
on
your
dress
?
”
Ally
asked
,
looking
at
her
with
wistful
admiration
.
“
I
want
to
be
sure
the
sleeves
don
’
t
ruck
up
the
same
as
they
did
yesterday
.
”
Charity
gazed
at
her
with
dazzled
eyes
.
“
Oh
,
it
’
s
lovely
,
”
she
said
,
and
hastened
away
without
listening
to
Ally
’
s
protest
.
She
wanted
her
dress
to
be
as
pretty
as
the
other
girls
’
—
wanted
it
,
in
fact
,
to
outshine
the
rest
,
since
she
was
to
take
part
in
the
“
exercises
”
—
but
she
had
no
time
just
then
to
fix
her
mind
on
such
matters
.
.
.
.
She
sped
up
the
street
to
the
library
,
of
which
she
had
the
key
about
her
neck
.
From
the
passage
at
the
back
she
dragged
forth
a
bicycle
,
and
guided
it
to
the
edge
of
the
street
.
She
looked
about
to
see
if
any
of
the
girls
were
approaching
;
but
they
had
drifted
away
together
toward
the
Town
Hall
,
and
she
sprang
into
the
saddle
and
turned
toward
the
Creston
road
.
There
was
an
almost
continual
descent
to
Creston
,
and
with
her
feet
against
the
pedals
she
floated
through
the
still
evening
air
like
one
of
the
hawks
she
had
often
watched
slanting
downward
on
motionless
wings
.
Twenty
minutes
from
the
time
when
she
had
left
Miss
Hatchard
’
s
door
she
was
turning
up
the
wood
-
road
on
which
Harney
had
overtaken
her
on
the
day
of
her
flight
;
and
a
few
minutes
afterward
she
had
jumped
from
her
bicycle
at
the
gate
of
the
deserted
house
.
In
the
gold
-
powdered
sunset
it
looked
more
than
ever
like
some
frail
shell
dried
and
washed
by
many
seasons
;
but
at
the
back
,
whither
Charity
advanced
,
drawing
her
bicycle
after
her
,
there
were
signs
of
recent
habitation
.
A
rough
door
made
of
boards
hung
in
the
kitchen
doorway
,
and
pushing
it
open
she
entered
a
room
furnished
in
primitive
camping
fashion
.
In
the
window
was
a
table
,
also
made
of
boards
,
with
an
earthenware
jar
holding
a
big
bunch
of
wild
asters
,
two
canvas
chairs
stood
near
by
,
and
in
one
corner
was
a
mattress
with
a
Mexican
blanket
over
it
.
The
room
was
empty
,
and
leaning
her
bicycle
against
the
house
Charity
clambered
up
the
slope
and
sat
down
on
a
rock
under
an
old
apple
-
tree
.
The
air
was
perfectly
still
,
and
from
where
she
sat
she
would
be
able
to
hear
the
tinkle
of
a
bicycle
-
bell
a
long
way
down
the
road
.
.
.
.
She
was
always
glad
when
she
got
to
the
little
house
before
Harney
.
She
liked
to
have
time
to
take
in
every
detail
of
its
secret
sweetness
—
the
shadows
of
the
apple
-
trees
swaying
on
the
grass
,
the
old
walnuts
rounding
their
domes
below
the
road
,
the
meadows
sloping
westward
in
the
afternoon
light
—
before
his
first
kiss
blotted
it
all
out
.
Everything
unrelated
to
the
hours
spent
in
that
tranquil
place
was
as
faint
as
the
remembrance
of
a
dream
.
The
only
reality
was
the
wondrous
unfolding
of
her
new
self
,
the
reaching
out
to
the
light
of
all
her
contracted
tendrils
.
She
had
lived
all
her
life
among
people
whose
sensibilities
seemed
to
have
withered
for
lack
of
use
;
and
more
wonderful
,
at
first
,
than
Harney
’
s
endearments
were
the
words
that
were
a
part
of
them
.
She
had
always
thought
of
love
as
something
confused
and
furtive
,
and
he
made
it
as
bright
and
open
as
the
summer
air
.
