It had its
origin in the soul:
"Whereaway goes my lad? Tell me, has he gone alone?
Never harsh word did I speak; never hurt I gave;
Strong he was and beautiful; like a heron he has flown
Hereaway, hereaway will I make my grave."
The voice lingered on the words till it trailed away into nothing, like
the vanishing note of a violin which seems still to pulse faintly after
the sound has ceased.
"But he did not go alone, and I have not made my grave," the girl said,
and raised her head at the sound of footsteps. With an effort she
emerged from the half-trance in which she had been, and smiled at a man
hastening towards her.
"Dear bully, bulbous being--how that word 'bully' would have, made her
cringe!" she said as the man ambled nearer. He could not go as fast as
his mind urged him.
"I've got news--news, news!" he exclaimed, wading through his own
perspiration to where she sat. "I can guess what it is," the girl
remarked smilingly, as she reached out a hand to him, but remained
seated. "It's a real, live baby born to Lydia, wife of Methuselah, the
woman also being of goodly years. It is, isn't it."
"The fattest, finest, most 'scrumpshus' son of all the ages that ever--"
Kitty laughed happily and very whimsically.
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