She
enjoyed numerous romances; one romance after another flamed into her
puzzled life, each leaving her more lovely than it found her. She was
also invariably good. To be asked if she was good was a blundering
question to which the astonished answer was only an indignant "Of
course." And, similarly, all she loved herself was beautiful. Her
romances had included gardeners and postmen, stable-boys and curates,
age of no particular consequence provided they stimulated her creative
imagination. And the latest was--the Tramp.
Something about the woebegone figure of adventure had set on fire her
mother instinct _and_ her sense of passionate romance. She saw him
young, without the tangled beard, without the rags, without the
dilapidated boots. She saw him in her mind as a warrior hero, storming
difficulty, despising danger, wandering beneath the stars, a being
resplendent as a prince and fearless as a deity. He was a sun of the
morning, and the dawn was in his glorious blue eyes.
And Tim now saw that this sister of his, alone of all the party, was
about to do something unexpected. She had left her place upon the
fallen trunk and stepped up in front of the Policeman.
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