She had
come out of the park by the gateway opposite Boswell's apartment, and
just ahead of her, across the street, was a thin, stooping figure with
caped coat flapping in the rising wind, and hair blowing across a bent
face.
"I--I am dreaming!" The words came brokenly. "I am bewitched!"
But with characteristic quickness of thought and action she put her doubt
to the test. Running across the space between her and that slow-stepping
figure she panted huskily:
"Master Farwell! Master Farwell!"
He turned and fixed his deep, haunting eyes upon her.
"It's Priscilla Glenn!" he whispered, as if to reassure himself; "little
Priscilla of the In-Place."
By some trick of over-stimulated imagination Priscilla tried to adjust
the gentle, kindly man she knew and loved to the strange creature into
which he had evolved since last she met him, but she could not! To her he
would always be the friend and helper, the understanding guide of her
stormy girlhood. The rest was but shadows that came and went, cast by
happenings with which she had nothing to do.
They were holding each other's hands under the window from which Boswell
was, perhaps, at that very moment watching and waiting.
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