He started to go
down the road; then Annie heard a loud, silvery call,
with a harsh inflection, from her father's house.
"Imogen is calling him back," she thought.
Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly
down-stairs and out into the yard, crouched close
to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its founda-
tion hidden in the mallow, and there she listened.
She wanted to know what Imogen and her other
sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, and she
meant to know. She heard every word. The dis-
tance was not great, and her sisters' voices carried
far, in spite of their honeyed tones and efforts tow-
ard secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the
gate of the parsonage they had all crowded down
there, a fluttering assembly in their snowy summer
muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first.
Imogen was always the ringleader.
"Couldn't you find her?" asked Imogen.
"No. Rang three times," replied Tom. He had
a boyish voice, and his chagrin showed plainly in it.
Annie knew just how he looked, how dear and big
and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face,
blurting out to her sisters his disappointment, with
innocent faith in their sympathy.
Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet
voice, which yet, to one who understood her, carried in
it a sting of malice.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340