A year swept by, and Merna had become less restless, more submissive to that which she deemed the inevitable; it is a mercy that time casts so tender a haze over all things.
Ned had written no letter to her; at first she grieved, but latterly she had grown indignant.
“Why do you not accept other company?” said her mother.
“Oh, I don’t care for them; they are not nice, mamsy.”
“You are a very foolish little girl to waste your affections upon one who cares so little,” said her mother.
“Now, mamsy, I am not wasting a particle of anything. As for Ned Glover, I hate him!”
Her mother laughed, but said no more, trusting to time to effect a cure.
It was a lovely evening in June; the wind softly fluttered the thin curtains at the open window bringing in the odor of the roses which grew just outside. Merna sat in a low rocker just within, her arms thrown above her head, her book lying unheeded upon her lap; she was so absorbed in reverie that she heard no sound, and a sudden darkening of the window startled her.
Resting his arms on the window ledge, Ned stood regarding her quizzically: “Are you too sleepy to say ‘how do you do?’ How I do wish for a kodak!” precisely as though he had not been gone a day.