“I’ve made up my mind to get you a second-day dress, too, Emarine. You can have it any color you want—dove-color ’d be awful nice. There’s a hat down at Mis’ Norton’s milliner’ store that ’u’d go beautiful with dove-color.”
Emarine took some flat-irons off the stove, wiped them carefully with a soft cloth and set them evenly on a shelf. Still she did not speak. Mrs. Endey’s face took on an anxious look.
“There’s some beautiful artaficial orange flowers at Mis’ Norton’s, Emarine. You can be married in ’em, if you want. They’re so reel they almost smell sweet.”
She waited a moment, but receiving no reply, she added with a kind of desperation—“An’ a veil, Emarine—a long, white one a-flowin’ down all over you to your feet—one that ’u’d just make Mis’ Grisley’s Lily’s mouth water. What do you say to that? You can have that, too, if you want.”
“Well, I don’t want!” said Emarine, fiercely. “Didn’t I say I wa’n’t goin’ to marry him? I’ll give him his walking-chalk when he comes to-night. I don’t need any help about it, either.”
She went out, closing the door as an exclamation point.
Oregon City kept early hours. The curfew ringing at nine o’clock on summer evenings gathered the tender-aged of both sexes off the street.
It was barely seven o’clock when Orville Palmer came to take Emarine out for a drive. He had a high top-buggy, rather the worse for wear, and drove a sad-eyed, sorrel horse.
She was usually ready to come tripping down the path, to save his tying the horse. To-night she did not come. He waited a while. Then he whistled and called—“Oh, Emarine!”
He pushed his hat back and leaned one elbow on his knee, flicking his whip up and down, and looking steadily at the open door. But she did not come. Finally he got out and, tying his horse, went up the path slowly. Through the door he could see Emarine sitting quietly sewing. He observed at once that she was pale.