"Belle Mitchell, if you go back to that I'll walk straight out of this
room."
"Go back to what?" Belle rose and took the rigid little body in her
arms. "Oh, come on, Anne, relax inside and out. Run along and have a
grand time feeding the chickens and listening to Aunt Het reminisce and
thank the Lord for your simple tastes. When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"Moms know it?"
"Not yet."
The sisters smiled at each other. Then Belle drew Anne into her arms
and held her close, her own cheek on the cool blonde hair, her eyes
very soft and tender.
"You dear little thing," she whispered, "you dear--breakable--little
thing."
Released, Anne tried to laugh, but she was too queerly excited about
something that, as soon as she was alone, was going to slip out from
behind the wall to which Belle's presence relegated it. The laugh
stopped at her lips in a wistful little smile.
"Remember, Anne, if you change your mind you only have to phone me. I
always have some cash on hand. You will, won't you?"
"Yes, I will."
"Honest?"
"Cross my heart to die. And--thanks--awfully----"
"Nonsense."
Belle opened the door and went briskly down the hall. Anne closed it
softly, turned out the light, undressed and threw the window as wide as
she could. Between the smooth, fresh sheets she lay waiting tensely for
silence to settle on the house and leave her quite alone with her own
thoughts.
At last Belle and her mother went downstairs, her father wound the
cuckoo clock, the door below slammed and Hilda came slowly up. The hall
light went out. Silence had come.
In the soft, black stillness, Roger Barton stood out clearly, his
crisp blond hair electric with vitality, his wide mouth now tight with
repressed anger, now whimsical with mirth.
Would he really look her up?