“Yes,” I continued, “I want to know how you happened to be here.” The fair cheeks flushed, the intelligent brow wrinkled, while hard lines were plainly visible around her mouth, as I finished the sentence.
“It may be a long story,” said the woman, as she gazed at the bright buckles on the dainty slippers which encased her feet.
“I am willing to listen if you will be kind enough to tell me all,” said I.
“My early life was devoid of anything more than most girls are called upon to endure. At the age of twelve I lost my mother, at fifteen death claimed my father, then I went to live with a maiden aunt in Columbus, Ind. I was poor, very poor. As I now look back and view the past, I wonder that I was able to continue my studies until I graduated with high honors, but I did and the day I was seventeen my greatest heights of happiness were scaled, for it was on that eventful day that my youthful lover, Jamie Harris and I became engaged with the consent of my auntie, provided, however, we would not think of marriage until Jamie had finished his course at college, which he was taking at the State University, located at Bloomington, Ind. We two young lovers, eager in our happiness, consented to the plans which my spinster relative laid for us. Jamie was twenty; he had two more years in the regular collegiate course, then a professional course of some sort and we would be ready to take up life’s journey.
“Meanwhile, I bided my time, looking forward to the longed for event with anticipation in every way worthy of the reward. One long year dragged along; I cared for no one, thought of nothing but to dream of Jamie. All the little details of ‘love in a cottage’ had been thoroughly gone over, and directed, I, in my own mind, trying to find some method of improvement on the time worn ethics of a wife’s duty.
“When morning came I busied myself with the affairs of my aunt’s humble home, which I, too, had known as my only shelter for years. I moved with the spirit of love. I became mechanical in doing things while I drew on my imagination to such an extent, that at times I almost fancied that it was our home (Jamie’s and mine), and that I was serving him. I planned and thought so much of how I would always have his slippers ready, and papers and cigars, for he smoked. Oh, all the dreams made me so happy and contented.
“It was the beginning of the second year that I received an invitation to visit a friend in Franklin, Ind., a near-by town. During my stay there I met many and made scores of friends; it was then that I realized how closely my life and Jamie’s had become cemented together. I saw the world as I had never before known it to exist; I was the recipient of many favors at the hands of my new friends. If I failed to write to Jamie as often as I had done, he excused me by saying in his letters that he was glad I was having a good time. Theaters, drives, parties, dinners, etc., to the fulfillment of my fondest hopes. More excitement than I had ever expected to know.
“The friend whom I was visiting was a few years my senior, and when I explained to her that I was engaged and suggested that it might not be good form for me to receive the attentions of a certain young man, who insisted on occupying most of my time, she only laughed and said I had lots to learn. She then gave me much information along the lines of society conventionalities. She was my best friend. I heard all she said and allowed myself to put too broad a construction on her words. I allowed words to be poured into my ears that changed the feeling which I had had for poor Jamie. My new admirer was rich, handsome and gallant and much admired by all the girls of ‘the set.’
“True to the expectation of those girls, I seemed to win Francis Winslow. He had no eyes for any but me. Things drifted along until the time came for my home going, then all on account of his persuasions, I remained a week longer than my allotted time. When I arrived home I received several letters from Jamie and a severe scolding from my aunt. The letters dated back ten days; the tone of the oldest one was the same sweet, endearing sentiment, which had always made his messages so precious, but as I sat reading through the many pages, I perceived as I thought a coldness (though I know now it was love’s anxiety). The last two hurt me; they referred to things which I could not account for his knowing. Finally the closing of the last letter said, ‘If not too busy flirting with your friend, Winslow, please answer.’