The paper dropped from Miss Hicks' nerveless fingers as she remembered that first long year of separation—a lonely year, even though it was she herself who had urged Dan to be independent of his rich, crotchety old uncle and to seek his own fortune away somewhere, so that he might be the man she wanted him to be. She remembered achingly how long she had waited for another letter, at first with eager anticipation, later with dread; how slowly time had passed after that tender little valentine note, and how one day some of her own letters came back to her, marked unclaimed. And then she thought of the time, several years later, when her mother had died and when she felt for the first time the old grief of utter loneliness and misery, and the desolation of those months came over her again, in one great sickening wave that made her shake from head to foot; she recalled the days that followed, full of visits from kind and condoling neighbors, who gradually let her alone when they saw how much she desired it; the nights, full of grief and unsatisfied longing, when she gave way unrestrainedly to the sorrow which was pent up during the day.
But—and Miss Hicks straightened up with a proud little smile, though her lips still trembled—at all events she had remained faithful to her promise; though doubts had often assailed her, she had kept the tryst bravely, and she comforted herself often by thinking, when she felt especially tired and alone, that if Dan were living, he would surely find his way back to her some day, and if he were dead she had a childish little feeling of relief that he was watching over her and protecting her all the time.
The clock struck eleven slow, even strokes, and Miss Hicks, in amazement at the lateness of the hour, hastily put the valentines in the box, and with one last look, set it back on the shelf, and went to bed. She tossed restlessly for a long time, for her thoughts and the recollections they had awakened were sadder than usual. But still she felt glad that at last she had had the courage to call back openly the memories that she had striven to put aside for so long. And when she did finally fall asleep, her dreams made her thin lips part in happy curves, and caused her to utter now and then deep, unconscious sighs of content.
The next morning was sunshiny, with no trace of yesterday's gloom, and the little street seemed to have become dry as if by magic, and to have lost for the time being its dinginess in the sunshine poured out on it so liberally. Miss Hicks sat at her window, busied with re-trimming an old bonnet; but there was no reflection of sunshine in her face. The reaction due to what she had done last night had come over her, and the memories which had seemed sweet then were unpleasant and bitter this morning. All her life, she thought sadly, was made up of unrealised hopes and ungranted desires; whatever had been dear to her had been taken away when she most needed it; every disaster and trouble had come upon her when she was least ready to meet it. And now she thought with a sigh, she had become too old to ever have it different; it seemed to her that never had her eyes been so lifeless, her mouth so lined and careworn, her hair so thin and grey as they had appeared this morning in her little mirror. What an unfair thing the world was anyway, she thought, as she bit off her thread reflectively and watched the mail-carrier coming briskly across the street. What a lot of mail those people next door did get! Even that was not divided fairly.
But—and she stared in astonishment—the mail-carrier was actually coming to her house; at this very minute he was climbing her rickety little steps and knocking at her battered little door. She hastily dropped her work and hurried to open the latch.
"It must be the wrong place," she began deprecatingly, but he shoved a bulky envelope through the crack in the door and with a pleasant "Guess it's yours, all right; good morning," was off again before she could demonstrate further. It certainly must be hers, for it said, "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks, Lombard Street, Midville," in big, bold characters on the envelope; it was an embossed one, too, with gay cupids and garlands of roses on the border. Miss Hicks looked at it wonderingly at first; then she smiled with the pleased anticipation of a child, and she prepared to cut the envelope carefully, carefully. She looked at the post-mark, but it was too blurred to be plainly seen—and just then a thought came to her that made her grow suddenly white and tremble. No, no, it was impossible; but what if—? Such things had happened, many and many a time, and just because such things never had happened to her was no reason that they might not occur now. She was almost afraid to see what the envelope held, and she turned it over hesitatingly in her hand; but finally with shaking fingers she cut the paper, blew it open, and drew out the folded paper inside. Expectantly she unfolded it, her heart beating high, her lips parted in anticipation. Then suddenly daylight seemed to leave her, and when the mistiness had cleared away, she found herself staring at a hideous cartoon in flaring red and green, of an old maid with cork-screw curls, a thin, angular figure, and a long hooked nose, while underneath was boldly printed:
"You're the meanest old maid in the city—
With that we'll all surely agree;
We know you once thought you were pretty,
But no trace of it now can we see.