Mortimer recognized the boy's sincerity. A little
thrill of pride and shame, and perhaps something else, ran
through her. The night was hot and she unfastened the clasp of
her cloak, breathing a trifle quickly. To relieve the silence,
she said, with a laugh:
"You see we poor married women have to depend on charity. Our
husbands don't care to walk home with us. Your father was bent
on your coming."
Harry laughed a short laugh; the utter darkness of Mr. Sterling's
condition struck through his agitation down to his sense of
humor. Mrs. Mortimer smiled at him; she could not help it: the
secret between them was so pleasant to her, even while she
hated herself for its existence.
They had reached the meadow now, halfway through their journey.
A little gate led into it and Harry stopped, leaning his arm on
the top rail.
"Oh, no! we must go on," she murmured.
"They won't move for an hour yet," he answered, and then he
suddenly broke out:
"How--how funny it is! I hardly remembered you, you know."
"Oh, but I remembered you, a pretty little boy;" and she looked
up at his face, half a foot above her. Mere stature has much
effect and the little boy stage seemed very far away. And he
knew that it did, for he put out his hand to take hers. She drew
back.
"No," she said.
Harry blushed. She took hold of the gate and he, yielding his
place, let her pass through. For a minute or two they walked on
in silence.
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