It looked warm, and she was
cold. It was full of her people, and she was very, very lonely. She sat
in a back seat, and saw with unseeing eyes. She said again, as she had
said to herself a hundred times, that it was all right and just what she
had expected. What else could she have dreamed? That he should ever
marry her was beyond possibility; that had been settled long
since--there where the tall, dark pines, wan with the shades of evening,
cast their haunting shadows across the Silver Fleece and half hid the
blood-washed west. After _that_ he would marry some one else, of course;
some good and pure woman who would help and uplift and serve him.
She had dreamed that she would help--unknown, unseen--and perhaps she
had helped a little through Mrs. Vanderpool. It was all right, and yet
why so suddenly had the threads of life let go? Why was she drifting in
vast waters; in uncharted wastes of sea? Why was the puzzle of life
suddenly so intricate when but a little week ago she was reading it, and
its beauty and wisdom and power were thrilling her delighted hands?
Could it be possible that all unconsciously she had dared dream a
forbidden dream? No, she had always rejected it. When no one else had
the right; when no one thought; when no one cared, she had hovered over
his soul as some dark guardian angel; but now, now somebody else was
receiving his gratitude.
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