Now let us
think of Willy!"
"Please!" said the girl. "I cannot talk of this any more. We must stop
sometime."
The time of twilight came; the gasping house flung open doors and windows
to the night. Mr. Thorne pursued his evening walk alone among the fruits
and vegetables, counting his egg-plants, and marking the track of gophers
in his rows of artichokes. The women were strolling toward the hill. Miss
Benedet had put on a cloth skirt and stiff shirt-waist for her journey,
and suffered from the change, but did not show it. Her beauty was not of
the florid or melting order. Mrs. Thorne regarded her inconsolably, noting
with distinct and separate pangs each item of her loveliness, as she
moved serene and pale against the dark, resonant green of the pines. They
followed a foot-path back among the trees to a small gate or door in the
high boundary fence. Mrs. Thorne tried it to see if it were locked.
"Willy used to live, almost, on this hill when he came out for his
vacations." She spoke dreamily, as if thinking aloud. "He slept in that
tent. It looks like a little ghost to me these nights in the moonlight, the
curtains flap in such a lonely way.
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