She was sorry for her father, but
she could not help him. Moreover, alien griefs did not greatly touch
her. Her own grief was deep and all-enfolding. She was heart-sick,
and always yearning--yearning for that she dared not name.
The day was hot, sultry; no birds sang, but the locusts were noisy;
the air was full of humming bees.
Allie watched the river. She was idle because her aunt would not let
her work. She could only remember and suffer. The great river
soothed her. Where did it come from and where did it go? And what
was to become of her? Almost it would have been better--
A servant interrupted her. "Missy, heah's a gennelman to see yo',"
announced the Negro girl.
Allie looked. She thought she saw a tall, buckskin-clad man carrying
a heavy pack. Was she dreaming or had she lost her mind? She got up,
shaking in every limb. This tall man moved; he seemed real; his
bronzed face beamed. He approached; he set the pack down on the
bench. Then his keen, clear eyes pierced Allie.
"Wal, lass," he said, gently.
The familiar voice was no dream, no treachery of her mind.
Slingerland! She could not speak. She could hardly see. She swayed
into his arms. Then when she felt the great, strong clasp and the
softness of buckskin on her face and the odor of pine and sage--and
desert dust, she believed in his reality.
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