Some four blocks away a girl was walking—swiftly, her hands clenched so that the knuckles were white. Bright spots burned in her cheeks and her eyes were deep and starry with bright vision. A man, passing close, turned and watched her curiously, saw her enter a wooden gate. A few feet from a darkened porch she seemed to spring forward in her haste. He saw her run up the steps and disappear into the house....
There was the sound of water being poured from one vessel into another, in the downstairs back-hall, and then the shuffling of retiring feet. Mrs. Mosby stood outlined in the high doorway, a lighted candle in her hand, her eyes straining into the darkness.
"Come, brother Rob," she called and waited.
There was a muffled reply.
"It will certainly be good," she went on, half to herself and pleasantly musing, "to have a real bathroom with hot water from a spigot. The city's pleasant in winter. I'm sorry we're waiting until January first. Come, brother Rob. The water's getting cold."