When I had dressed I went downstairs to the front door, and sat
on the sandstone steps under the arch of the Virginia creeper. I
was all alone, for Mary Sloane had gone to Avonlea.
It was a beautiful night; the full moon was just rising over the
wooded hills, and her light fell through the poplars into the
garden before me. Through an open corner on the western side I
saw the sky all silvery blue in the afterlight. The garden was
very beautiful just then, for it was the time of the roses, and
ours were all out--so many of them--great pink, and red, and
white, and yellow roses.
Hester had loved roses and could never have enough of them. Her
favorite bush was growing by the steps, all gloried over with
blossoms--white, with pale pink hearts. I gathered a cluster and
pinned it loosely on my breast. But my eyes filled as I did
so--I felt so very, very desolate.
I was all alone, and it was bitter. The roses, much as I loved
them, could not give me sufficient companionship. I wanted the
clasp of a human hand, and the love-light in human eyes. And
then I fell to thinking of Hugh, though I tried not to.
I had always lived alone with Hester. I did not remember our
parents, who had died in my babyhood. Hester was fifteen years
older than I, and she had always seemed more like a mother than a
sister. She had been very good to me and had never denied me
anything I wanted, save the one thing that mattered.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126