Harold Hartshorn stood on the front steps below,
talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and
Father had turned back on to the piazza.
As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs.
Father was in his favorite rocking-chair. I advanced slowly. I did not
sit down.
"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my
voice.
"Yes."
"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly.
"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He
wants to rent it for next year."
"To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no
rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big,
and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to live
there.)
"Yes--for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him
next year," explained Father.
"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those four
words.
"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and--"
But I had fled to my room.
After all, my recovery was rapid. I was in love with love, you see;
not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went to
college. And it was while I was at college that I met Jerry.
Jerry was the brother of my college friend, Helen Weston.
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