"Oh, it's you," she said, wearily.
"Yes; do you care if I walk along with you?"
"No," said Rose, "not if you want to."
An old pang of gratitude came over her. It was only the honest,
overgrown boy, Tommy Ray, of the store. She had known he worshipped
her afar off; she had laughed at him and half despised him, but now
she felt suddenly humble and grateful for even this devotion. She
moved her arm that he might hold it more closely.
"It's too dark for you to be out alone," he said, in his embarrassed,
tender voice.
"Yes, it's pretty dark," said Rose. Her voice shook. They had passed
the last group of returning people. Suddenly Rose, in spite of
herself, began to cry. She sobbed wildly, and the boy, full of alarm
and sympathy, walked on by her side.
"There ain't anything--scared you, has there?" he stammered out,
awkwardly, at length.
"No," sobbed Rose.
"You ain't sick?"
"No, it isn't anything."
The boy held her arm closer; he trembled and almost sobbed himself
with sympathy. Before they reached the old tavern Rose had stopped
crying--she even tried to laugh and turn it off with a jest. "I don't
know what got into me," she said; "I guess I was nervous."
"I didn't know but something had scared you," said the boy.
They stood on the door-steps; the house was dark. Rose's parents had
gone to bed, and William was out.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185