She staggered
into the house, so stiff she could scarcely walk, and sank into a chair
to sob out her loneliness and despair, while Willard pottered about
building a fire on their icy hearth.
Willard Burke had a question to ask, and that night, as they were
sitting at their poor little table, he plucked up courage to begin:
"Blanche, I want to ask you something--that is, I've been kind o'
noticin' you--" Here he paused, intending to be sly and suggestive.
"Seems to me this climate ain't so bad, after all; you complain a good
deal, but seems to me you hadn't ought to." He trembled while he smiled.
"It's done a lot for you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her face flushing with confusion.
"I mean"--he tried to laugh--"your best dress seems pretty tight for
you. Oh, if it only should be--"
"Don't be a fool," she angrily replied. "If anything like that happens,
I'll let you know."
His face lengthened, and the smile went out of his eyes. He accepted her
tone as final, too loyal to doubt her word. "Don't be mad; I was only in
hopes.
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