The brownish stream thickened, as it
made its way down the stovepipe and fell in flat puddles on the tin
plate beneath it.--_Would she come?_
"If she doesn't come now!" whimpered Miss Etta. "An awful
girl--_awful_!"
I began hoping of a sudden that she would not come. Though I craved her
presence in that insufferable room, I was afraid for her. A sort of
nameless terror had seized me that would not be dismissed. Yet what
worse thing than she had already endured could come from that bundle of
loose clothes on the bed? The figure moved uneasily under the covers and
made an indefinite motion. I could only guess at the words addressed to
Miss Etta as she bent over him. She shook her head.
"No," she said audibly, "not yet."
With one brown, fleshless hand, that lay outside the covers, he made a
gesture of resignation, but the gray eyes, turning towards me, burned
black.
I could make out fragmentary bits of conversation that issued from the
corner of the room.
"When it comes to one's own blood--"
The rest was lost in a surge of wind and rain.
"An awful girl--"
"She ought to be--"
A low rumble came down the hill, followed by a more terrific onslaught
of rain. Outside the clap of a door came as a relief. There were steps,
then, just as I had expected, the door was thrust back and she stood
there letting in the fresh air of heaven, a slender sheaf of gray in her
long coat and small fur toque.
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