"She's come to board. The paper said so. 'The well-known poetess, Ruth Bellair, has arrived to spend the summer at the commodious boarding establishment of L. H. Moody.'"
He looked at her in a pale triumph, and she stared back at him with all the emotion he could have wished.
"I can't hardly believe it," she said faintly.
"That's it," he nodded at her. "Nobody could believe it. Why, Marietta, do you suppose there's been a night I've sat here that I haven't either read some of her pieces to you, or told you something I'd seen about her in the papers?"
"No," said Marietta, rather wearily, yet with a careful interest, "you haven't talked about anything else scarcely."
He was looking at her out of the same solemn assurance that it had been commendable in him to preserve that romantic loyalty.
"She begun to write about the time I did," he said, tasting the flavor of reminiscence. "I used to see her name in the papers when I never so much as thought I should write a line myself. She's been a great influence in my life, Marietta."
"Yes, course she has," Marietta responded, rising to the height of his emotion. "I guess she's influenced a good many folks."
"Well, I've got my chance. She's here within ten miles of us, and come what may, I'm bound to see her."
Marietta started.