‘I should like to come down and see you,’ he wrote, ‘in Sleepy Hollow, that is, if you care to have me, and it is quite convenient. Do not trouble to write unless you want me. If I do not get an answer I shall know you do not care.’
Richard Everidge had been married for three years now, and had a little girl.
She clasped her hands with one quick cry of pain. What must he have thought of her all these years? Her friend, who had always been so kind! so kind!
‘Pawliney!’ called her father, in the querulous accents of one whose brain is weakening. ‘Pawliney, I wish you’d come down and sing a little, the house is terrible lonesome since mother’s gone.’
And Pauline sang, in her full, sweet tones:—
‘“God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform.”’
‘God is good, Pawliney?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘He never makes mistakes?’
‘Oh, no, father.’