She hovered about in an odd,
restless kind of way, and finally came behind Aunt Hepsy's chair, and
folded her hands on her shoulder.
"What is it, child?" said Aunt Hepsy wonderingly. "Summat you have to
tell me, I reckon. Anything in Tom's letter ye haven't told me?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," and Lucy's voice fell very low now. "I want to tell
you--I have promised to be Mr. Goldthwaite's wife."
"Bless me, Lucy, 'tain't true?" cried Aunt Hepsy, starting up; and
seeing in Lucy's downcast face confirmation of her words, she sank
back to her chair, and for the first and only time in her life Aunt
Hepsy went off into hysterics.
In the tender gloaming of an August evening Tom and Lucy Hurst stood
together within the porch at Thankful Rest. They had been at
Pendlepoint visiting old friends, and, after walking slowly home,
lingered here talking of old times, and loath to leave the soft
beauty of the summer night. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow
was Tom Hurst now, towering a head above his sister, who stood very
close to him, her head leaning against his shoulder.
"Do you remember what a pair of miserable little creatures stood just
here five years ago, Lucy?" he said half laughingly, half earnestly.
"Yes," said Lucy softly. "What a difference between then and now.
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