The new grace of her shining head and wondrous, swaying figure, the beauty
and spirit of her carriage, filled my consciousness. A schooner with a
deck load of wood drifted with the tide, her sails flapping; I saw her in
a blur. When I turned from the sheen of the river, the bicyclists whizzing
past left streaks of light. A man cutting brush in a vacant lot leaned on
his axe to look after us. The sudden stopping of his "chop, chop"--he too
was staring at the vision of beauty before his eyes--brought me out of my
revery.
"Nelly," I said, "your father will expect a letter from me. What shall I
say?"
"Tell him I am studying hard and like the city."
"But about us--about you and me?"
"Must we talk of that here--on the street?"
She spoke almost pleadingly, with the same soft clouding of her loveliness
that I had seen the day before?
"But I must speak," I said. "You were right yesterday, I won't ask
anything of you until I have made a start; but I must know that you still
love me; that will be enough. I can wait. I won't hurry you. That is all,
Helen. Everything shall be as you wish; but--you do love me?"
"Oh, you great tease! Why, I suppose I do; but--so much has happened, I
don't know myself now; you didn't know me when you first saw me here.
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