“Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Better give Larry a chance to do his proving––before we get any hopes or fears to acting up.”
“I guess that’s sensible,” Peter nodded, “he mightn’t do it, you know.”
Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping from his face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losing its hold.
“It’s powerful hot here!” Peter muttered, wiping his face. “And what in thunder ails that dog?”
Ginger was certainly acting queer. He was circling around, sniffing, sniffing, his nose in the air, his tail wagging. He edged over to the door and smelt at the crack.
“Fits?” Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration.
“I believe, Peter,” she said solemnly, “Ginger smells––spring! I thought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges by the water. I do love edges, Peter! Let’s open the door wide, brother. We get so used to winter, and live so close, that sometimes we don’t know spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge of winter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Ginger old fellow, what’s the matter?”
Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. A soft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorway and a fragrance of young, edgy things thrilled them.
“Peter dear, spring is here!” Polly said this like a prayer.
“Spring!” Peter’s voice echoed the sound. Then he turned to the closet for his coat and hat.