two about his "botch" of life--then he walked away from the Wentworth
doorstep. But halfway down the garden path, where the shriveled
hollyhocks stood like sentinels, did a wave of something different sweep
over him--a wave of the boyish, irresponsible past when his heart had
wings and could fly without fear to its mate--a wave of the past
that was rushing through Nancy's mind, wellnigh burying her in its
bitter-sweet waters. For he lifted his head, and suddenly retracing his
steps, he came toward her, and, taking her hand again, said forlornly:
"You 'll see me back when my luck turns, Nancy."

Nancy knew that the words might mean little or much, according to the
manner in which they were uttered, but to her hurt pride and sore,
shamed woman-instinct, they were a promise, simply because there was a
choking sound in Justin's voice and tears in Justin's eyes. "You 'll see
me back when my luck turns, Nancy"; this was the phrase upon which she
had lived for more than ten years. Nancy had once heard the old parson
say, ages ago, that the whole purpose of life was the growth of the
soul; that we eat, sleep, clothe ourselves, work, love, all to give the
soul another day, month, year, in which to develop. She used to wonder
if her soul could be growing in the monotonous round of her dull duties
and her duller pleasures. She did not confess it even to herself;
nevertheless she knew that she worked, ate, slept, to live until
Justin's luck turned. Her love had lain in her heart a bird without
a song, year after year. Her mother had dwelt by her side and never
guessed; her father, too; and both were dead. The neighbors also,
lynx-eyed and curious, had never suspected. If she had suffered, no one
in Edgewood was any the wiser, for the maiden heart is not commonly worn
on the sleeve in New England. If she had been openly pledged to Justin
Peabody, she could have waited twice ten years with a decent show of
self-respect, for long engagements were viewed rather as a matter of
course in that neighborhood. The endless months had gone on since that
gray November day when Justin had said goodbye. It had been just before
Thanksgiving, and she went to church with an aching and ungrateful
heart. The parson read from the eighth chapter of St. Matthew, a most
unexpected selection for that holiday. "If you can't find anything else
to be thankful for," he cried, "go home and be thankful you are not a
leper!"

Nancy took the drastic counsel away