mpness.

Lucina felt uneasy lest she be deceiving her mother, but she could
not bring herself to tell her, though she did not fairly know why,
that she expected a caller.

The dusk gathered softly, like the shadow of brooding wings. She
thought Jerome must come very soon. She could just see a glimmer of
white road through the trees, and she watched that eagerly, never
taking her eyes from it. Now and then she heard an approaching
footstep, and a black shadow slanted athwart the road. Her heart
sank, though she wondered at it, when that happened.

When Jerome came up the road she made sure at once that it was he.
She even stirred to greet him, but after an indefinable pause he
passed on also; then she thought she had been mistaken.

He saw the flutter of pale drapery on the door-step, but never
dreamed that Lucina was actually there watching for him. After a
while he went back. Lucina, who was still sitting there, saw him
again, but this time did not stir, since he was going the other way.

When, at half-past eight, she saw the people from the evening
prayer-meeting passing on the road, she made sure that Jerome would
not come that night.

She gave a soft sigh, leaned her head back against the fluted
door-post, and tried to recall every word he had said to her, and
every word she had said to him, about his coming. She began to wonder
if she had possibly not been cordial enough, if she could have made
him fear he would not be welcome. She repeated over and over, trying
to imagine him in her place as listener, all she had said to him. She
gave it the furthest inflections of graciousness and coolness of
which she could have been capable, and puzzled sorely as to which she
had used.

"It makes so much difference as to how you say a thing," thought poor
Lucina, "and I know I was afraid lest he think me too glad to have
him come. I wonder if I did not say enough, or did not say it
pleasantly."

It did not once occur to Lucina that Jerome might mean to slight her,
and might stay away because he wished to do so. She had been so
petted and held precious and desirable during her whole sweet life,
that she could scarcely imagine any one would flout her, though so
timid and fearful of hurting and being hurt was she by nature, that
without so much love and admiration she would have been a piteous
thing.

She decided that it must be her fault that Jerome had not come. She
reflected that he was very proud; she remembered,