Fifteen minutes passed.
The beat of hoofs was resumed, and soon afterwards Sally Dawson came
slowly through the darkness, her dress dragging over the dewy grass.
She seemed to have forgotten that her mother was waiting for her, and
was about to pass on to the house, when Mrs. Dawson spoke up.
"Heer I am, Sally; what did he say?"
The girl sat down on the log beside her mother. There was a desperate
glare in her eyes that had never been in eyes more youthful. Her lips
were drawn tight, her small hands clinched.
"It's every bit true," she said, under her breath. "He's goin' with
Lizzie, regular. He admitted he had an engagement with her tonight.
Mother, it's all up with me. He's jest tired of me. I don't deserve
any pity for bein' such a fool, but it's awful--awful--awful!"
Mrs. Dawson caught her breath suddenly, so sharp was her own pain, but
she still strove to console her daughter.
"He's railly not wuth thinkin' about, darlin'; do--do try to forget
'im. It may look like a body never could git over a thing like that,
but I reckon a pusson kin manage to sort o' bear it better, after
awhile, than they kin right at the start.
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