It was the girl who
denied, as she still kneeled upon the floor.
"I do not believe that is true," she said. "You could not look me in the
face so steadily were it true. Your eyes would seek the floor, not
mine."
"Yet it is true."
"Three little white feathers," she said slowly; and then, with a sob in
her throat, "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the Lennon
River--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. And then come three
little white feathers, and the world's at an end."
"Oh, don't!" cried Harry, and his voice broke upon the word. Up till now
he had spoken with a steadiness matching the steadiness of his eyes. But
these last words of hers, the picture which they evoked in his memories,
the pathetic simplicity of her utterance, caught him by the heart. But
Ethne seemed not to hear the appeal. She was listening with her face
turned toward the ballroom. The chatter and laughter of the voices there
grew louder and nearer. She understood that the music had ceased. She
rose quickly to her feet, clenching the feathers in her hand, and opened
a door. It was the door of her sitting room.
"Come," she said.
Harry followed her into the room, and she closed the door, shutting out
the noise.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67